RANCH  CABELL 


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m.  j 

m  1 1 


NOV  2  6 
SEP  2  3 


OF  THE 

UNIVER.S  ITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 

813 

CII2.*- 

1915 


THE  RIVET  IN 
GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


BOOKS  BY  MR.  CABELL 


FICTION: 

The  Rivet  in  Grandfather’s  Neck 
The  Soul  of  Melicent 
Chivalry 

The  Cords  of  Vanity 
Gallantry 
The  Line  of  Love 
The  Eagle’s  Shadow 

GENEALOGY: 

Branch  of  Abingdon 

B  RANCHI  AN  A 


THE  RIVET 
IN  GRANDFATHER’S 

NECK 

A  Comedy  of  Limitations 


BY 

JAMES  BRANCH  CABELL 


“To  this  new  South ,  who  values  her  high 
past ,  in  chief,  as  fit  foundation  of  that  edifice 
whereon  she  labors  day  by  day,  and  with 
augmenting  strokes 


NEW  YORK 

ROBERT  M.  McBRIDE  &  COMPANY 

191S 


Copyright,  1915,  by 

ROBERT  M.  McBRIDE  &  COMPANY 


Published  October,  1915 


&hj  ZChouSt  1  <#q.6Lu,  sr  lc>AS~b  USe/fRCY 


813 
C  1 1  Jin, 
ms 


TO 

PRISCILLA  BRADLEY  CABELL 


“Nightly  I  mark  and  praise,  or  great  or  small, 

Such  stars  as  proudly  struggle  one  by  one 
To  heaven’s  highest  place,  as  Procyon, 

Antares,  Naos,  Tejat  and  Nibal 
Attain  supremacy,  and  proudly  fall, 

Still  glorious,  and  glitter,  and  are  gone 
So  very  soon; — whilst  steadfast  and  alone 
Polaris  gleams,  and  is  not  changed  at  all. 

“Daily  I  find  some  gallant  dream  that  ranges 
The  heights  of  heaven;  and  as  others  do, 

I  serve  my  dream  until  my  dream  estranges 

Its  errant  bondage,  and  I  note  anew 

That  nothing  dims,  nor  shakes,  nor  mars,  nor  changes, 

Fond  faith  in  you  and  in  my  love  of  you.” 


* 


CONTENTS 


Propinquity 

Renascence 

Tertius 

Appreciation 

Souvenir 

Byways 

Yoked  . 

Harvest 

Relics  . 

Imprimis 


PAGE 

II 

45 

79 

ii5 

163 

191 

241 

273 

319 

353 


In  the  middle  of  the  cupboard  door  was  the  carved  figure  of 
a  man.  .  .  .  He  had  goat’s  legs,  little  horns  on  his  head,  and  a 
long  beard;  the  children  in  the  room  called  him,  “Major-Gen- 
eral-field-sergeant-commander-Billy-goat’s-legs”  .  .  .  He  was  al¬ 
ways  looking  at  the  table  under  the  looking-glass  where  stood 
a  very  pretty  little  shepherdess  made  of  china.  .  .  .  Close  by 
her  side  stood  a  little  chimney-sweep,  as  black  as  coal  and  also 
made  of  china.  .  .  .  Near  to  them  stood  another  figure.  .  .  .  He 
was  an  old  Chinaman  who  could  nod  his  head,  and  used  to  pre¬ 
tend  he  was  the  grandfather  of  the  shepherdess,  although  he 
could  not  prove  it.  He,  however,  assumed  authority  over  her, 
and  therefore  when  “Major-general-field-sergeant-commander- 
Billy-goat’s-legs”  asked  for  the  little  shepherdess  to  be  his  wife, 
he  nodded  his  head  to  show  that  he  consented. 

Then  the  little  shepherdess  cried,  and  looked  at  her  sweet¬ 
heart,  the  chimney-sweep.  “I  must  entreat  you,”  said  she,  “to 
go  out  with  me  into  the  wide  world,  for  we  cannot  stay 
here.”  .  .  .  When  the  chimney-sweep  saw  that  she  was  quite 
firm,  he  said,  “My  way  is  through  the  stove  up  the  chim¬ 
ney.”  ...  So  at  last  they  reached  the  top  of  the  chimney.  .  .  . 
The  sky  with  all  its  stars  was  over  their  heads.  .  .  .  They  could 
see  for  a  very  long  distance  out  into  the  wide  world,  and  the 
poor  little  shepherdess  leaned  her  head  on  her  chimney-sweep’s 
shoulder  and  wept.  “This  is  too  much,”  she  said,  “the  world  is 
too  large.”  .  .  .  And  so  with  a  great  deal  of  trouble  they  climbed 
down  the  chimney  and  peeped  out.  .  .  .  There  lay  the  old 
Chinaman  on  the  floor  .  .  .  broken  into  three  pieces.  .  .  . 
“This  is  terrible,”  said  the  shepherdess.  “He  can  be  riveted,” 
said  the  chimney-sweep.  .  .  .  The  family  had  the  Chinaman’s 
back  mended  and  a  strong  rivet  put  through  his  neck;  he  looked 
as  good  as  new,  but  when  “Major-General-field-sergeant-com- 
mander-Billy-goat’s-legs”  again  asked  for  the  shepherdess  to 
be  his  wife,  the  old  Chinaman  could  no  longer  nod  his  head. 

And  so  the  little  china  people  remained  together  and  were 
thankful  for  the  rivet  in  grandfather’s  neck,  and  continued  to 
love  each  other  until  they  were  broken  to  pieces. 


\ 


PART  I 
PROPINQUITY 


“A  singer ,  eh?  .  .  .  Well,  well!  hut  when  he  sings 
Take  jealous  heed  lest  idiosyncrasies 
Entinge  and  taint  too  deep  his  melodies; 

See  that  his  lute  has  no  discordant  strings 
To  harrow  us;  and  let  his  vaporings 
Be  all  of  virtue  and  its  victories, 

And  of  man's  best  and  noblest  qualities, 

And  scenery,  and  flowers,  and  similar  things . 

“Thus  bid  our  paymasters  whose  mutterings 
Some  few  deride,  and  blithely  link  their  rhymes 
At  random;  and,  as  ever,  on  frail  wings 
Of  wine-stained  paper  scribbled  with  such  rhymes 
Men  mount  to  heaven,  and  loud  laughter  springs 
From  hell’s  midpit,  whose  fuel  is  such  rhymes.” 

Paul  Verville.  Nascitur. 


I 


AT  a  very  remote  period,  when  editorials  were 
mostly  devoted  to  discussion  as  to  whether 
the  Democratic  Convention  (shortly  to  be 
held  in  Chicago)  would  or  would  not  declare  in  favor 
of  bi-metallism;  when  golf  was  a  novel  form  of 
recreation  in  America,  and  people  disputed  how  to 
pronounce  its  name,  and  pedestrians  still  turned  to 
stare  after  an  automobile;  when,  according  to  the 
fashion  notes,  “the  godet  skirts  and  huge  sleeves  of 
the  present  modes”  were  already  doomed  to  extinc¬ 
tion;  when  the  baseball  season  had  just  begun,  and 
some  of  our  people  were  discussing  the  national  game, 
and  others  the  spectacular  burning  of  the  old  Pennsyl¬ 
vania  Railway  depot  at  Thirty-third  and  Market  Street 
in  Philadelphia,  and  yet  others  the  significance  of  Gen¬ 
eral  Fitzhugh  Lee’s  recent  appointment  as  consul-gen¬ 
eral  to  Habana : — at  this  remote  time,  Lichfield  talked 
of  nothing  except  the  Pendomer  divorce  case. 

And  Colonel  Rudolph  Musgrave  had  very  narrow¬ 
ly  escaped  being  named  as  the  co-respondent.  This 
much,  at  least,  all  Lichfield  knew  when  George  Pen- 

13 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


domer — evincing  unsuspected  funds  of  generosity — • 
permitted  his  wife  to  secure  a  divorce  on  the  euphemis¬ 
tic  grounds  of  “desertion.”  John  Charteris,  acting  as 
Rudolph  Musgrave’s  friend,  had  patched  up  this  ar¬ 
rangement;  and  the  colonel  and  Mrs.  Pendomer,  so 
rumor  ran,  were  to  be  married  very  quietly  after  a 
decent  interval. 

Remained  only  to  deliberate  whether  this  sop  to 
the  conventions  should  be  accepted  as  sufficient. 

“At  least,”  as  Mrs.  Ashmeade  sagely  observed,  “we 
can  combine  vituperation  with  common-sense,  and  re¬ 
member  it  is  not  the  first  time  a  Musgrave  has  fig¬ 
ured  in  an  entanglement  of  the  sort.  A  lecherous 
race!  proverbial  flutterers  of  petticoats!  His  surname 
convicts  the  man  unheard  and  almost  excuses  him. 
All  of  us  feel  that.  And,  moreover,  it  is  not  as  if  the 
idiots  had  committed  any  unpardonable  sin,  for  they 
have  kept  out  of  the  newspapers.” 

Her  friend  seemed  dubious,  and  hazarded  some¬ 
thing  concerning  “the  merest  sense  of  decency.” 

“In  the  name  of  the  Prophet,  figs!  People — I 
mean  the  people  who  count  in  Lichfield — are  chari¬ 
table  enough  to  ignore  almost  any  crime  which  is  just 
a  matter  of  common  knowledge.  In  fact,  they  are 
mildly  grateful.  It  gives  them  something  to  talk 
about.  But  when  detraction  is  printed  in  the  morn¬ 
ing  paper  you  can’t  overlook  it  without  incurring  the 
suspicion  of  being  illiterate  and  virtueless.  That’s 
Lichfield.” 

“But,  Polly - ” 

14 


PROPINQUITY 


“Sophist,  don’t  I  know  my  Lichfield?  I  know  it 
almost  as  well  as  I  know  Rudolph  Musgrave.  And 
so  I  prophesy  that  he  will  not  marry  Clarice  Pen- 
domer,  because  he  is  inevitably  tired  of  her  by  this. 
He  will  marry  money,  just  as  all  the  Musgraves  do. 
Moreover,  I  prophesy  that  we  will  gabble  about  this 
mess  until  we  find  a  newer  target  for  our  stone  throw¬ 
ing,  and  be  just  as  friendly  with  the  participants  to 
their  faces  as  we  ever  were.  So  don’t  let  me  hear 
any  idiotic  talk  about  whether  or  no  I  am  going  to 
receive  her — — ” 

“Well,  after  all,  she  was  born  a  Bellingham.  We 
must  remember  that.” 

“Wasn’t  I  saying  I  knew  my  Lichfield?”  Mrs.  Ash- 

meade  placidly  observed. 

*  *  * 

And  time,  indeed,  attested  her  to  be  right  in  every 
particular. 

Yet  it  must  be  recorded  that  at  this  critical  junc¬ 
ture  chance  rather  remarkably  favored  Colonel  Mus¬ 
grave  and  Mrs.  Pendomer,  by  giving  Lichfield  some¬ 
thing  of  greater  interest  to  talk  about;  since  now, 
just  in  the  nick  of  occasion,  occurred  the  notorious 
Scott  Musgrave  murder.  Scott  Musgrave — a  fourth 
cousin  once  removed  of  the  colonel’s,  to  be  quite  ac¬ 
curate — had  in  the  preceding  year  seduced  the  daugh¬ 
ter  of  a  village  doctor,  a  negligible  “half-strainer” 
up  country  at  Warren;  and  her  two  brothers,  being 
irritated,  picked  this  particular  season  to  waylay  him 
in  the  street,  as  he  reeled  homeward  one  night  from 

IS 


the  Commodores’  Club,  and  forthwith  to  abolish  Scott 
Musgrave  after  the  primitive  methods  of  their  lower 
station  in  society. 

These  details,  indeed,  were  never  officially  made 
public,  since  a  discreet  police  force  “found  no  clues” ; 
for  Fred  Musgrave  (of  King’s  Garden),  as  befitted 
the  dead  man’s  well-to-do  brother,  had  been  at  no 
little  pains  to  insure  constabulary  shortsightedness,  in 
preference  to  having  the  nature  of  Scott  Musgrave’s 
recreations  unsympathetically  aired.  Fred  Mus¬ 
grave  thereby  afforded  Lichfield  a  delectable  oppor¬ 
tunity  (conversationally  and  abetted  by  innumerable 
“they  do  say’s”)  to  accredit  the  murder,  turn  by  turn, 
to  every  able-bodied  person  residing  within  stone’s 
throw  of  its  commission.  So  that  few  had  time,  now, 
to  talk  of  Rudolph  Musgrave  and  Clarice  Pendomer; 
for  it  was  not  in  Lichfieldian  human  nature  to  dis¬ 
cuss  a  mere  domestic  imbroglio  when  here,  also  in 
the  Musgrave  family,  was  a  picturesque  and  gory  as¬ 
sassination  to  lay  tongue  to. 

So  Colonel  Musgrave  was  duly  reelected  that 
spring  to  the  librarianship  of  the  Lichfield  Historical 
Association,  and  the  name  of  Mrs.  George  Pendomer 
was  not  stricken  from  the  list  of  patronesses  of  the 
Lichfield  German  Club,  but  was  merely  altered  to 

“Mrs.  Clarice  Pendomer.” 

*  *  * 

At  the  bottom  of  his  heart  Colonel  Musgrave  was 
a  trifle  irritated  that  his  self-sacrifice  should  be  thus 
unrewarded  by  martyrdom.  Circumstances  had  en- 
16 


PROPINQUITY 


abled  him  to  assume,  and  he  had  gladly  accepted,  the 
blame  for  John  Charter is’s  iniquity,  rather  than  let 
Anne  Charteris  know  the  truth  about  her  husband 
and  Clarice  Pendomer.  The  truth  would  have  killed 
Anne,  the  colonel  believed;  and  besides,  the  colonel 
had  enjoyed  the  performance  of  a  picturesque  action. 

And  having  acted  as  a  hero  in  permitting  himself 
to  be  pilloried  as  a  libertine,  it  was  preferable  of 
course  not  to  have  incurred  ostracism  thereby.  His 
common-sense  conceded  this ;  and  yet,  to  Colonel 
Musgrave,  it  could  not  but  be  evident  that  Destiny 
was  hardly  rising  to  the  possibilities  of  the  situation. 


1 7 


II 


CONCERNING  Colonel  Musgrave  one  finds  the 
ensuing  account  in  a  publication  of  the  period 
devoted  to  biographies  of  more  or  less  prom¬ 
inent  Americans.  It  is  reproduced  unchanged,  be¬ 
cause  these  memoirs  were — in  the  old  days — compiled 
by  the  person  whom  they  commemorated.  The  cus¬ 
tom  was  a  worthy  one,  since  the  value  of  an  auto¬ 
biography  is  determined  by  the  nature  of  its  super¬ 
fluities  and  falsehoods. 

“MUSGRAVE,  RUDOLPH  VARTREY,  editor;  b. 
Lichfield,  Sill.,  Mar.  14,  1856;  s.  William  Sebastian  and 
Martha  (Allardyce)  M ;  g.  s.  Theodorick  Q.  M.,  gov. 
of  Sill.  1805-8,  judge  of  the  General  Ct.,  1808-11,  judge 
Supreme  Ct.  of  Appeals,  1811-50  and  pres.  Supreme  Ct. 
of  Appeals,  1841-50;  grad.  King’s  Coll,  and  U.  of  Sill. 
Corr.  sec.  Lichfield  Hist.  Soc.,  and  editor  Sill.  Mag.  of 
Biog.  since  1890;  dir.  Traders  Nat.  Bank,  Sill. ;  mem.  Soc. 
of  the  Sons  of  Col.  Govs.,  pres.  Sill.  Soc.  of  Protestant 
Martyrs,  comdr.  Sill.  Mil.  Order  of  Lost  Battles,  mem. 
exec.  bd.  Sill.  Hist.  Assn,  for  the  Preservation  of  Ruins. 
Democrat,  Episcopalian,  unmarried.  Author:  Colonial 
18 


PROPINQUITY 


Lichfield,  1892 ;  Right  on  the  Scaffold,  1893 ;  Secession 
and  the  South,  1894;  Chart  of  the  Descendants  of  Zeno- 
phon  Perkins,  1894;  Recollections  of  a  Gracious  Era, 
1895;  Notes  as  to  the  Vartreys  of  Westphalia,  1896. 
Has  also  written  numerous  pamphlets  on  hist.,  biog.  and 
geneal.  subjects.  Address:  Lichfield,  Sill.” 

For  Colonel  Musgrave  was  by  birth  the  lineal  head 
of  all  the  Musgraves  of  Matocton,  which  is  in  Lich¬ 
field,  as  degrees  are  counted  there,  equivalent  to  what 
being  born  a  marquis  would  mean  in  England.  Hand¬ 
some  and  trim  and  affable,  he  defied  chronology  by 
looking  ten  years  younger  than  he  was  known  to  be. 
For  at  least  a  decade  he  had  been  invaluable  to  Lich¬ 
field  matrons  alike  against  the  entertainment  of  an 
“out-of-town  girl,”  the  management  of  a  cotillion  and 
the  prevention  of  unpleasant  pauses  among  incon¬ 
gruous  dinner  companies. 

In  short,  he  was  by  all  accounts  the  social  triumph 
of  his  generation;  and  his  military  title,  won  by  four 
years  of  arduous  service  at  receptions  and  parades 
while  on  the  staff  of  a  former  Governor  of  the  State, 
this  seasoned  bachelor  carried  off  with  plausibility  and 
distinction. 

The  story  finds  him  “Librarian  and  Corresponding 
Secretary”  of  the  Lichfield  Historical  Association, 
which  office  he  had  held  for  some  six  years.  The  sal¬ 
ary  was  small,  and  the  colonel  had  inherited  little ;  but 
his  sister,  Miss  Agatha  Musgrave,  who  lived  with 
him,  was  a  notable  housekeeper.  He  increased  his 
resources  in  a  gentlemanly  fashion  by  genealogical 

19 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


research,  directed  mostly  toward  the  rehabilitation  of 
ambiguous  pedigrees;  and  for  the  rest,  no  other  man 
could  have  fulfilled  more  gracefully  the  main  duty 
of  the  Librarian,  which  was  to  exhibit  the  Associa¬ 
tion’s  collection  of  relics  to  hurried  tourists  “doing” 
Lichfield. 

His  “Library  manner”  was  modeled  upon  that 
which  an  eighteenth-century  portrait  would  conceiv¬ 
ably  possess,  should  witchcraft  set  the  canvas  breath¬ 
ing. 


20 


Ill 


ALSO  the  story  finds  Colonel  Musgrave  in  the 
company  of  his  sister  on  a  warm  April  day, 
whilst  these  two  sat  upon  the  porch  of  the 
Musgrave  home  in  Lichfield,  and  Colonel  Musgrave 
waited  until  it  should  be  time  to  open  the  Library  for 
the  afternoon.  And  about  them  birds  twittered  cheer¬ 
ily,  and  the  formal  garden  flourished  as  gardens  thrive 
nowhere  except  in  Lichfield,  and  overhead  the  sky  was 
a  turkis-blue,  save  for  a  few  irrelevant  clouds  which 
dappled  it  here  and  there  like  splashes  of  whipped 
cream. 

Yet,  for  all  this,  the  colonel  was  ill-at-ease;  and 
care  was  on  his  brow,  and  venom  in  his  speech. 

“And  one  thing,”  Colonel  Musgrave  concluded, 
with  decision,  “I  wish  distinctly  understood,  and  that 
is,  if  she  insists  on  having  young  men  loafing  about 
her — as,  of  course,  she  will — she  will  have  to  entertain 
them  in  the  garden.  I  won’t  have  them  in  the  house, 
Agatha.  You  remember  that  Langham  girl  you  had 
here  last  Easter?”  he  added,  disconsolately — “the  one 
who  positively  littered  up  the  house  with  young  men, 

21 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


•and  sang  idiotic  jingles  to  them  at  all  hours  of  the 
night  about  the  Bailey  family  and  the  correct  way  to 
spell  chicken  ?  She  drove  me  to  the  verge  of  insanity,  • 
and  I  haven’t  a  doubt  that  this  Patricia  person  will  be 
quite  as  obstreperous.  So,  please  mention  it  to  her, 
Agatha — casually,  of  course — that,  in  Lichfield,  when 
one  is  partial  to  either  vocal  exercise  or  amorous  dal¬ 
liance,  the  proper  scene  of  action  is  the  garden.  I 
really  cannot  be  annoyed  by  her.” 

“But,  Rudolph,”  his  sister  protested,  “you  forget 
she  is  engaged  to  the  Earl  of  Pevensey.  An  engaged 
girl  naturally  wouldn’t  care  about  meeting  any  young 
men.” 

“H’m!”  said  the  colonel,  drily. 

Ensued  a  pause,  during  which  the  colonel  lighted 
yet  another  cigarette. 

Then,  “I  have  frequently  observed,”  he  spoke,  in 
absent  wise,  “that  all  young  women  having  that  pe¬ 
culiarly  vacuous  expression  about  the  eyes — I  believe 
there  are  misguided  persons  who  describe  such  eyes  as 
being  ‘dreamy,’ — are  invariably  possessed  of  a  fickle, 
unstable  and  coquettish  temperament.  Oh,  no!  You 
may  depend  upon  it,  Agatha,  the  fact  that  she  contem¬ 
plates  purchasing  the  right  to  support  a  peculiarly  dis¬ 
reputable  member  of  the  British  peerage  will  not  hinder 
her  in  the  least  from  making  advances  to  all  the  young 
men  in  the  neighborhood.” 

Miss  Musgrave  was  somewhat  ruffled.  She  was  a 
homely  little  woman  with  nothing  of  the  ordinary 
Musgrave  comeliness.  Candor  even  compels  the  state- 
22 


PROPINQUITY 


ment  that  in  her  pudgy  swarthy  face  there  was  a  droll 
suggestion  of  the  pug-dog. 

“I  am  sure,”  Miss  Musgrave  remonstrated,  with 
placid  dignity,  “that  you  know  nothing  whatever  about 
her,  and  that  the  reports  about  the  earl  have  probably 
been  greatly  exaggerated,  and  that  her  picture  shows 
her  to  be  an  unusually  attractive  girl.  Though  it  is 
true,”  Miss  Musgrave  conceded  after  reflection,  “that 
there  are  any  number  of  persons  in  the  House  of  Lords 
that  I  wouldn’t  in  the  least  care  to  have  in  my  own 
house,  even  with  the  front  parlor  all  in  linen  as  it  un¬ 
fortunately  is.  So  awkward  when  you  have  company ! 
And  the  Bible  does  bid  us  not  to  put  our  trust  in 
princes,  and,  for  my  part,  I  never  thought  that  photo¬ 
graphs  could  be  trusted,  either.” 

“Scorn  not  the  nobly  born,  Agatha,”  her  brother 
admonished  her,  “nor  treat  with  lofty  scorn  the  well- 
connected.  The  very  best  people  are  sometimes  re¬ 
spectable.  And  yet,”  he  pursued,  with  a  slight  hiatus 
of  thought,  “I  should  not  describe  her  as  precisely  an 
attractive-looking  girl.  She  seems  to  have  a  lot  of 
hair, — if  it  is  all  her  own,  which  it  probably  isn’t, — 
and  her  nose  is  apparently  straight  enough,  and  I 
gather  she  is  not  absolutely  deformed  anywhere;  but 
that  is  all  I  can  conscientiously  say  in  her  favor.  She 
is  artificial.  Her  hair,  now!  It  has  a — well,  you 
would  not  call  it  exactly  a  crinkle  or  precisely  a  wave, 
but  rather  somewhere  between  the  two.  Yes,  I  think 
I  should  describe  it  as  a  ripple.  I  fancy  it  must  be 
rather  like  the  reflection  of  a  sunset  in — a  duck-pond, 

23 


say,  with  a  faint  wind  ruffling  the  water.  For  I  gather 
that  her  hair  is  of  some  light  shade, — induced,  I 
haven’t  a  doubt,  by  the  liberal  use  of  peroxides.  And 
this  ripple,  too,  Agatha,  it  stands  to  reason,  must  be 
the  result  of  coercing  nature,  for  I  have  never  seen  it 
in  any  other  woman’s  hair.  Moreover,”  Colonel  Mus- 
grave  continued,  warming  somewhat  to  his  subject, 
“there  is  a  dimple — on  the  right  side  of  her  mouth, 
immediately  above  it, — which  speaks  of  the  most 
frivolous  tendencies.  I  dare  say  it  comes  and  goes 
when  she  talks, — winks  at  you,  so  to  speak,  in  a  man¬ 
ner  that  must  be  simply  idiotic.  That  foolish  little 
cleft  in  her  chin,  too - ” 

But  at  this  point,  his  sister  interrupted  him. 

“I  hadn’t  a  notion,”  said  she,  “that  you  had  even 
looked  at  the  photograph.  And  you  seem  to  have  it 
quite  by  heart,  Rudolph, — and  some  people  admire 
dimples,  you  know,  and,  at  any  rate,  her  mother  had 
red  hair,  so  Patricia  isn’t  really  responsible.  I  decided 
that  it  would  be  foolish  to  use  the  best  mats  to-night. 
We  can  save  them  for  Sunday  supper,  because  I  am 
only  going  to  have  eggs  and  a  little  cold  meat,  and  not 
make  company  of  her.” 

For  no  apparent  reason,  Rudolph  Musgrave  flushed. 

“I  inspected  it — quite  casually — last  night.  Please 
don’t  be  absurd,  Agatha!  If  we  were  threatened  with 
any  other  direful  visitation — influenza,  say,  or  the 
seventeen-year  locust, — I  should  naturally  read  up  on 
the  subject  in  order  to  know  what  to  expect.  And 
since  Providence  has  seen  fit  to  send  us  a  visitor  rather 
24 


than  a  visitation — though,  personally,  I  should  in¬ 
finitely  prefer  the  influenza,  as  interfering  in  less  de¬ 
gree  with  my  comfort, — I  have,  of  course,  neglected  no 
opportunity  of  finding  out  what  we  may  reasonably 
look  forward  to.  I  fear  the  worst,  Agatha.  For  I  re¬ 
peat,  the  girl’s  face  is,  to  me,  absolutely  unattractive!” 

The  colonel  spoke  with  emphasis,  and  flung  away 
his  cigarette,  and  took  up  his  hat  to  go. 

And  then,  “I  suppose,”  said  Miss  Musgrave,  ab¬ 
sently,  “you  will  be  falling  in  love  with  her,  just  as 
you  did  with  Anne  Charteris  and  Aline  Van  Orden  and 
all  those  other  minxes.  I  would  like  to  see  you  mar¬ 
ried,  Rudolph,  only  I  couldn’t  stand  your  having  a 
wife.” 

“I!  I!”  sputtered  the  colonel.  “I  think  you  must 
be  out  of  your  head!  I  fall  in  love  with  that  chit! 
Good  Lord,  Agatha,  you  are  positively  idiotic!” 

And  the  colonel  turned  on  his  heel,  and  walked 
stiffly  through  the  garden.  But,  when  half-way  down 
the  path,  he  wheeled  about  and  came  back. 

“I  beg  your  pardon,  Agatha,”  he  said,  contritely, 
“it  was  not  my  intention  to  be  discourteous.  But  some¬ 
how — somehow,  dear,  I  don’t  quite  see  the  necessity 
for  my  falling  in  love  with  anybody,  so  long  as  I  have 
you.” 

And  Miss  Musgrave,  you  may  be  sure,  forgave  him 
promptly;  and  afterward — with  a  bit  of  pride  and  an 
infinity  of  love  in  her  kind,  homely  face, — her  eyes 
followed  him  out  of  the  garden  on  his  way  to  open  the 
Library.  And  she  decided  in  her  heart  that  she  had 

25 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


the  dearest  and  best  and  handsomest  brother  in  the 
universe,  and  that  she  must  remember  to  tell  him,  ac¬ 
cidentally,  how  becoming  his  new  hat  was.  And  then, 
at  some  unspoken  thought,  she  smiled,  wistfully. 

“She  would  be  a  very  lucky  girl  if  he  did,”  said  Miss 
Musgrave,  apropos  of  nothing  in  particular ;  and  tossed 
her  grizzly  head. 

“An  earl,  indeed!”  said  Miss  Musgrave 


26 


IV 


AND  this  is  how  it  came  about : 

Patricia  Vartrey  (a  second  cousin  once  re¬ 
moved  of  Colonel  Rudolph  Musgrave’s),  as 
the  older  inhabitants  of  Lichfield  will  volubly  attest, 
was  always  a  person  who  did  peculiar  things.  The 
list  of  her  eccentricities  is  far  too  lengthy  here  to  be 
enumerated ;  but  she  began  it  by  being  born  with  red 
hair — Titian  reds  and  auburns  were  undiscovered 
euphemisms  in  those  days — and,  in  Lichfield,  this  is 
not  regarded  as  precisely  a  lady-like  thing  to  do;  and 
she  ended  it,  as  far  as  Lichfield  was  concerned,  by 
eloping  with  what  Lichfield  in  its  horror  could  only 
describe,  with  conscious  inadequacy,  as  “a  quite  un- 
heardof  person.” 

Indisputably  the  man  was  well-to-do  already;  and 
from  this  nightmarish  topsy-turvidom  of  Reconstruc¬ 
tion  the  fellow  visibly  was  plucking  wealth.  Also 
young  Stapylton  was  well  enough  to  look  at,  too,  as 
Lichfield  hurriedly  conceded. 

But  it  was  equally  undeniable  that  he  had  made  his 
money  through  a  series  of  commercial  speculations 

27 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


distinguished  both  by  shiftiness  and  daring,  and  that 
the  man  himself  had  been  until  the  War  a  wholly  neg¬ 
ligible  “poor  white”  person, — an  overseer,  indeed,  for 
“Wild  Will”  Musgrave,  Colonel  Musgrave’s  father, 
who  was  of  course  the  same  Lieutenant-Colonel  Wil¬ 
liam  Sebastian  Musgrave,  C.  S.  A.,  that  met  his  death 
at  Gettysburg. 

This  upstart  married  Patricia  Vartrey,  for  all  the 
chatter  and  whispering,  and  carried  her  away  from 
Lichfield,  as  yet  a  little  dubious  as  to  what  recogni¬ 
tion,  if  any,  should  be  accorded  the  existence  of  the 
Stapyltons.  And  afterward  (from  a  notoriously  un¬ 
truthful  North,  indeed)  came  rumors  that  he  was 
rapidly  becoming  wealthy;  and  of  Patricia  Vartrey’ s 
death  at  her  daughter’s  birth ;  and  of  the  infant’s  health 
and  strength  and  beauty,  and  of  her  lavish  upbring¬ 
ing, — a  Frenchwoman,  Lichfield  whispered,  with  ab¬ 
solutely  nothing  to  do  but  attend  upon  the  child. 

And  then,  little  by  little,  a  new  generation  sprang 
up,  and,  little  by  little,  the  interest  these  rumors  waked 
became  more  lax;  and  it  was  brought  about,  at  last, 
by  the  insidious  transitions  of  time,  that  Patricia  Var¬ 
trey  was  forgotten  in  Lichfield.  Only  a  few  among 
the  older  men  remembered  her;  some  of  them  yet 
treasured,  as  these  fogies  so  often  do,  a  stray  fan  or 
an  odd  glove;  and  in  by-corners  of  sundry  time-tough¬ 
ened  hearts  there  lurked  the  memory  of  a  laughing 
word  or  of  a  glance  or  of  some  such  casual  bounty, 
that  Patricia  Vartrey  had  accorded  these  hearts’ 
owners  when  the  world  was  young. 

28 


PROPINQUITY 


But  Agatha  Musgrave,  likewise,  remembered  the 
orphan  cousin  who  had  been  reared  with  her.  She 
had  loved  Patricia  Vartrey;  and,  in  due  time,  she 
wrote  to  Patricia’s  daughter, — in  stately,  antiquated 
phrases  that  astonished  the  recipient  not  a  little, — 
and  the  girl  had  answered.  The  correspondence  flour¬ 
ished.  And  it  was  not  long  before  Miss  Musgrave 
had  induced  her  young  cousin  to  visit  Lichfield. 

Colonel  Rudolph  Musgrave,  be  it  understood,  knew 
nothing  of  all  this  until  the  girl  was  actually  on  her 
way.  And  now,  she  was  to  arrive  that  afternoon,  to 
domicile  herself  in  his  quiet  house  for  two  long  weeks 
— this  utter  stranger,  look  you! — and  upset  his  com¬ 
fort,  ask  him  silly  questions,  expect  him  to  talk  to 
her,  and  at  the  end  of  her  visit,  possibly,  present  him 
with  some  outlandish  gimcrack  made  of  cardboard  and 
pink  ribbons,  in  which  she  would  expect  him  to  keep 

his  papers.  The  Langham  girl  did  that. 

*  *  * 

It  is  honesty’s  part  to  give  you  the  man  no  better 
than  he  was.  Lichfield  at  large  had  pampered  him; 
many  women  had  loved  him;  and  above  all,  Miss 
Agatha  had  spoiled  him.  After  fifteen  years  of  being 
the  pivot  about  which  the  economy  of  a  household 
revolves,  after  fifteen  years  of  being  the  inevitable 
person  whose  approval  must  be  secured  before  any 
domestic  alteration,  however  trivial,  may  be  consid¬ 
ered,  no  mortal  man  may  hope  to  remain  a  paragon 
of  unselfishness. 

Colonel  Musgrave  joyed  in  the  society  of  women. 

29 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


But  he  classed  them — say,  with  the  croquettes  adorned 
with  pink  paper  frills  which  were  then  invariably 
served  at  the  suppers  of  the  Lichfield  German  Club, — 
as  acceptable  enough,  upon  a  conscious  holiday,  but 
wholly  incongruous  with  the  slippered  ease  of  home. 
When  you  had  an  inclination  for  feminine  society, 
you  shaved  and  changed  your  clothes  and  thought  up 
an  impromptu  or  so  against  emergency,  and  went  forth 
to  seek  it  That  was  natural ;  but  to  have  a  petticoated 
young  person  infesting  your  house,  hourly,  was  as 
preposterous  as  ice-cream  soda  at  breakfast. 

The  metaphor  set  him  off  at  a  tangent  He  won¬ 
dered  if  this  Patricia  person  could  not  (tactfully)  be 
induced  to  take  her  bath  after  breakfast,  as  Agatha 
did?  after  he  had  his?  Why,  confound  the  girl,  he 
was  not  responsible  for  there  being  only  one  bathroom 
in  the  house!  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  have  his 
bath  and  be  at  the  Library  by  nine  o’clock.  This  inter¬ 
loper  must  be  made  to  understand  as  much. 

The  colonel  reached  the  Library  undecided  as  to 
whether  Miss  Stapylton  had  better  breakfast  in  her 
room,  or  if  it  would  be  entirely  proper  for  her  to 
come  to  the  table  in  one  of  those  fluffy  lace-trimmed 
garments  such  as  Agatha  affected  at  the  day’s  begin¬ 
ning? 

The  question  was  a  nice  one.  It  was  not  as  though 
servants  were  willing  to  be  bothered  with  carrying 
trays  to  people’s  rooms;  he  knew  what  Agatha  had 
to  say  upon  that  subject.  It  was  not  as  though  he 
were  the  chit’s  first  cousin,  either.  He  almost  wished 
30 


PROPINQUITY 


himself  in  the  decline  of  life,  and  free  to  treat  the 
girl  paternally. 

And  so  he  fretted  all  that  afternoon. 

5 k  *  * 

Then,  too,  he  reflected  that  it  would  be  very  awk¬ 
ward  if  Agatha  should  be  unwell  while  this  Patricia 
person  was  in  the  house.  Agatha  in  her  normal  state 
was  of  course  the  kindliest  and  cheeriest  gentlewoman 
in  the  universe,  but  any  physical  illness  appeared  to 
transform  her  nature  disastrously.  She  had  her  “at¬ 
tacks,”  she  “felt  badly”  very  often  nowadays,  poor 
dear;  and  how  was  a  Patricia  person  to  be  expected 
to  make  allowances  for  the  fact  that  at  such  times  poor 
Agatha  was  unavoidably  a  little  cross  and  pessimistic? 


3* 


V 


YET  Colonel  Musgrave  strolled  into  his  garden, 
later,  with  a  tolerable  affectation  of  uncon¬ 
cern.  Women,  after  all,  he  assured  himself, 
were  necessary  for  the  perpetuation  of  the  species; 
and,  resolving  for  the  future  to  view  these  weakly, 
big-hipped  and  slope-shouldered  makeshifts  of  Na¬ 
ture’s  with  larger  tolerance,  he  cocked  his  hat  at  a 
devil-may-carish  angle,  and  strode  up  the  walk, 
whistling  jauntily  and  having,  it  must  be  confessed, 
to  the  unprejudiced  observer  very  much  the  air  of  a 
sheep  in  wolf’s  clothing. 

“At  worst,”  he  was  reflecting,  “I  can  make  love  to 
her.  They,  as  a  rule,  take  kindlily  enough  to  that; 
and  in  the  exercise  of  hospitality  a  host  must  go  to 
all  lengths  to  divert  his  guests.  Failure  is  not  per¬ 
mitted.  .  . 

Then  She  came  to  him. 

She  came  to  him  across  the  trim,  cool  lawn,  leis¬ 
urely,  yet  with  a  resilient  tread  that  attested  the  vigor 
of  her  slim  young  body.  She  was  all  in  white,  di¬ 
aphanous,  ethereal,  quite  incredibly  incredible;  but  as 
she  passed  through  the  long  shadows  of  the  garden — 
32 


PROPINQUITY 


fire-new,  from  the  heart  of  the  sunset,  Rudolph  Mus- 
grave  would  have  sworn  to  you, — the  lacy  folds  and 
furbelows  and  semi-transparencies  that  clothed  her 
were  now  tinged  with  gold,  and  now,  as  a  hedge  or 
flower-bed  screened  her  from  the  horizontal  rays,  were 
softened  into  multitudinous  graduations  of  grays  and 
mauves  and  violets. 

“Failure  is  not  permitted,”  he  was  repeating  in  his 
soul.  .  .  . 

“You’re  Cousin  Rudolph,  aren’t  you?”  she  asked. 
“How  perfectly  entrancing!  You  see  until  to-day  I 
always  thought  that  if  I  had  been  offered  the  choice 
between  having  cousins  or  appendicitis  I  would  have 
preferred  to  be  operated  on.” 

And  Rudolph  Musgrave  noted,  with  a  delicious 
tingling  somewhere  about  his  heart,  that  her  hair  was 
really  like  the  reflection  of  a  sunset  in  rippling  waters, 
— only  many  times  more  beautiful,  of  course, — and 
that  her  mouth  was  an  inconsiderable  trifle,  a  scrap 
of  sanguine  curves,  and  that  her  eyes  were  purple 
glimpses  of  infinity. 

Then  he  observed  that  his  own  mouth  was  giving 
utterance  to  divers  irrelevant  and  foolish  sounds, 
which  eventually  resolved  themselves  into  the  state¬ 
ment  he  was  glad  to  see  her.  And  immediately  after¬ 
ward  the  banality  of  this  remark  brought  the  hot  blood 
to  his  face  and,  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  stung  him  and 
teased  him,  somewhere  in  the  background  of  his  mind, 
like  an  incessant  insect. 

Glad,  indeed! 


33 


Before  he  had  finished  shaking  hands  with  Patricia 
Stapylton,  it  was  all  over  with  the  poor  man. 

“Er — h’m!”  quoth  he. 

“Only,”  Miss  Stapylton  was  meditating,  with  puck¬ 
ered  brow,  “it  would  be  unseemly  for  me  to  call  you 
Rudolph - ” 

“You  impertinent  minx!”  cried  he,  in  his  soul;  “I 
should  rather  think  it  would  be!” 

“ - and  Cousin  Rudolph  sounds  exactly  like  a 

dried-up  little  man  with  eyeglasses  and  crows’  feet 
and  a  gentle  nature.  I  rather  thought  you  were  going 
to  be  like  that,  and  I  regard  it  as  extremely  hospitable 
of  you  not  to  be.  You  are  more  like — like  what  now  ?” 
Miss  Stapylton  put  her  head  to  one  side  and  consid¬ 
ered  the  contents  of  her  vocabulary, — “you  are  like  a 
viking.  I  shall  call  you  Olaf,”  she  announced,  when 
she  had  reached  a  decision. 

This,  look  you,  to  the  most  dignified  man  in  Lich¬ 
field, — a  person  who  had  never  borne  a  nickname  in 
his  life.  You  must  picture  for  yourself  how  the 
colonel  stood  before  her,  big,  sturdy  and  blond,  and 
glared  down  at  her,  and  assured  himself  that  he  was 
very  indignant;  like  Timanthes,  the  colonel’s  biogra¬ 
pher  prefers  to  draw  a  veil  before  the  countenance 
to  which  art  is  unable  to  do  justice. 

Then,  “I  have  no  admiration  for  the  Northmen,” 
Rudolph  Musgrave  declared,  stiffly.  “They  were  a 
rude  and  barbarous  nation,  proverbially  addicted  to 
piracy  and  intemperance.” 

“My  goodness  gracious !”  Miss  Stapylton  observed, 

34 


PROPINQUITY 


— and  now,  for  the  first  time,  he  saw  the  teeth  that 
were  like  grains  of  rice  upon  a  pink  rose  petal.  Also, 
he  saw  dimples.  “And  does  one  mean  all  that  by  a 
viking?” 

“The  vikings,”  he  informed  her — and  his  Library 
manner  had  settled  upon  him  now  to  the  very  tips 
of  his  fingers — “were  pirates.  The  word  is  of  Ice¬ 
landic  origin,  from  vik,  the  name  applied  to  the  small 
inlets  along  the  coast  in  which  they  concealed  their 
galleys.  I  may  mention  that  Olaf  was  not  a  viking, 
but  a  Norwegian  king,  being  the  first  Christian  mon¬ 
arch  to  reign  in  Norway.” 

“Dear  me!”  said  Miss  Stapylton;  “how  interest- 
ing!” 

Then  she  yawned  with  deliberate  cruelty. 

“However,”  she  concluded,  “I  shall  call  you  Olaf, 
just  the  same.” 

“Er — h’m!”  said  the  colonel. 

*  *  * 

And  this  stuttering  boor  (he  reflected)  was  Colonel 
Rudolph  Musgrave,  confessedly  the  social  triumph  of 
his  generation!  This  imbecile,  without  a  syllable  to 
say  for  himself,  without  a  solitary  adroit  word  within 
tongue’s  reach,  wherewith  to  annihilate  the  hussy,  was 

a  Musgrave  of  Matocton ! 

*  *  * 

And  she  did.  To  her  he  was  “Olaf”  from  that  day 
forth. 

Rudolph  Musgrave  called  her,  “You.”  He  was 
nettled,  of  course,  by  her  forwardness — “Olaf,”  in- 

35 


deed! — yet  he  found  it,  somehow,  difficult  to  bear 
this  fact  in  mind  continuously. 

For  while  it  is  true  our  heroes  and  heroines  in  fic¬ 
tion  no  longer  fall  in  love  at  first  sight,  Nature,  you 
must  remember,  is  too  busily  employed  with  other 
matters  to  have  much  time  to  profit  by  current  litera¬ 
ture.  Then,  too,  she  is  not  especially  anxious  to  be 
realistic.  She  prefers  to  jog  along  in  the  old  rut, 
contentedly  turning  out  chromolithographic  sunrises 
such  as  they  give  away  at  the  tea  stores,  contentedly 
staging  the  most  violent  and  improbable  melodramas ; 
and — sturdy  old  Philistine  that  she  is — she  even  now 
permits  her  children  to  fall  in  love  in  the  most  primi¬ 
tive  fashion. 

She  is  not  particularly  interested  in  subtleties  and 
soul  analyses ;  she  merely  chuckles  rather  complacently 
when  a  pair  of  eyes  are  drawn,  somehow,  to  another 
pair  of  eyes,  and  an  indescribable  something  is  altered 
somewhere  in  some  untellable  fashion,  and  the  world, 
suddenly,  becomes  the  most  delightful  place  of  resi¬ 
dence  in  all  the  universe.  Indeed,  it  is  her  favorite 
miracle,  this.  For  at  work  of  this  sort  the  old  Philis¬ 
tine  knows  that  she  is  an  adept;  and  she  has  re¬ 
joiced  in  the  skill  of  her  hands,  with  a  sober  work- 
manly  joy,  since  Cain  first  went  a-wooing  in  the  Land 
of  Nod. 

So  Colonel  Rudolph  Musgrave,  without  understand¬ 
ing  what  had  happened  to  him,  on  a  sudden  was 
strangely  content  with  life. 

It  was  at  supper — dinner,  in  Lichfield,  when  not  a 
36 


PROPINQUITY 


formal  entertainment,  is  eaten  at  two  in  the  afternoon 
— that  he  fell  a-speculating  as  to  whether  Her  eyes, 
after  all,  could  be  fitly  described  as  purple. 

Wasn’t  there  a  grayer  luminosity  about  them  than 
he  had  at  first  suspected? — wasn’t  the  cool  glow  of 
them,  in  a  word,  rather  that  of  sunlight  falling  upon 
a  wet  slate  roof? 

It  was  a  delicate  question,  an  afifair  of  nuances, 
of  almost  imperceptible  graduations;  and  in  debating 
a  matter  of  such  nicety,  a  man  must  necessarily  lay 
aside  all  petty  irritation,  such  as  being  nettled  by  an 
irrational  nickname,  and  approach  the  question  with 
unbiased  mind. 

He  did.  And  when,  at  last,  he  had  come  warily 
to  the  verge  of  decision,  Miss  Musgrave  in  all  inno¬ 
cence  announced  that  they  would  excuse  him  if  he 
wished  to  get  back  to  his  work. 

He  discovered  that,  somehow,  the  three  had  finished 
supper;  and,  somehow,  he  presently  discovered  him¬ 
self  in  his  study,  where  eight  o’clock  had  found  him 
every  evening  for  the  last  ten  years,  when  he  was 
not  about  his  social  diversions.  An  old  custom,  you 
will  observe,  is  not  lightly  broken. 


37 


VI 


SUBSEQUENTLY :  “I  have  never  approved  of 
these  international  marriages,”  said  Colonel 
Musgrave,  with  heat.  “It  stands  to  reason, 
she  is  simply  marrying  the  fellow  for  his  title.  (The 
will  of  Jeremiah  Brown ,  dated  29  November,  1690, 
recorded  2  February,  1690-1,  mentions  his  wife  Eliza 
Brown  and  appoints  her  his  executrix.)  She  can’t 
possibly  care  for  him.  (This,  then,  was  the  second 
wife  of  Edward  Osborne  of  Henrico,  who,  marrying 
him  15  June,  1694,  died  before  January,  1696-7.)  But 
they  are  all  flibbertigibbets,  every  one  of  them.  (She 
had  apparently  no  children  by  either  marriage — ) 
And  I  dare  say  she  is  no  better  than  the  rest.” 

Came  a  tap  on  the  door.  Followed  a  vision  of  soft 
white  folds  and  furbelows  and  semi-transparencies 
and  purple  eyes  and  a  pouting  mouth. 

“I  am  become  like  a  pelican  in  the  wilderness,  Olaf,” 
the  owner  of  these  vanities  complained.  “Are  you 
very  busy?  Cousin  Agatha  is  about  her  housekeep¬ 
ing,  and  I  have  read  the  afternoon  paper  all  through, 
— even  the  list  of  undelivered  letters  and  the  woman’s 

38 


PROPINQUITY 


page, — and  I  just  want  to  see  the  Gilbert  Stuart  pic¬ 
ture,”  she  concluded, — exercising,  one  is  afraid,  a  cer¬ 
tain  economy  in  regard  to  the  truth. 

This  was  a  little  too  much.  If  a  man’s  working- 
hours  are  not  to  be  respected — if  his  privacy  is  to 
be  thus  invaded  on  the  flimsiest  of  pretexts, — why, 
then,  one  may  very  reasonably  look  for  chaos  to  come 
again.  This,  Rudolph  Musgrave  decided,  was  a  case 
demanding  firm  and  instant  action.  Here  was  a 
young  person  who  needed  taking  down  a  peg  or  two, 
and  that  at  once. 

But  he  made  the  mistake  of  looking  at  her  first. 
And  after  that,  he  lied  glibly.  “Good  Lord,  no!  I 
am  not  in  the  least  busy  now.  In  fact,  I  was  just 
about  to  look  you  two  up.” 

“I  was  rather  afraid  of  disturbing  you.”  She  hesi¬ 
tated;  and  a  lucent  mischief  woke  in  her  eyes.  “You 
are  so  patriarchal,  Olaf,”  she  lamented.  “I  felt  like 
a  lion  venturing  into  a  den  of  Daniels.  But  if  you 
cross  your  heart  you  aren’t  really  busy — why,  then, 
you  can  show  me  the  Stuart,  Olaf.” 

It  is  widely  conceded  that  Gilbert  Stuart  never  in 
his  after  work  surpassed  the  painting  which  hung 
then  in  Rudolph  Musgrave’s  study, — the  portrait  of 
the  young  Gerald  Musgrave,  afterward  the  friend  of 
Jefferson  and  Henry,  and,  still  later,  the  author  of 
divers  bulky  tomes,  pertaining  for  the  most  part  to 
ethnology.  The  boy  smiles  at  you  from  the  canvas, 
smiles  ambiguously, — smiles  with  a  woman’s  mouth, 
set  above  a  resolute  chin,  however, — and  with  a  sort 

39 


of  humorous  sadness  in  his  eyes.  These  latter  are 
of  a  dark  shade  of  blue — purple,  if  you  will, — and 
his  hair  is  tinged  with  red. 

“Why,  he  took  after  me!”  said  Miss  Stapylton. 
“How  thoughtful  of  him,  Olaf !” 

And  Rudolph  Musgrave  saw  the  undeniable  resem¬ 
blance.  It  gave  him  a  queer  sort  of  shock,  too,  as  he 
comprehended,  for  the  first  time,  that  the  faint  blue 
vein  on  that  lifted  arm  held  Musgrave  blood, — the 
same  blood  which  at  this  thought  quickened.  For 
any  person  guided  by  appearances,  Rudolph  Musgrave 
considered,  would  have  surmised  that  the  vein  in  ques¬ 
tion  contained  celestial  ichor  or  some  yet  diviner 
fluid. 

“It  is  true,”  he  conceded,  “that  there  is  a  certain 
likeness.” 

“And  he  is  a  very  beautiful  boy,”  said  Miss  Stapyl¬ 
ton,  demurely.  “Thank  you,  Olaf;  I  begin  to  think 
you  are  a  dangerous  flatterer.  But  he  is  only  a  boy, 
Olaf !  And  I  had  always  thought  of  Gerald  Musgrave 
as  a  learned  person  with  a  fringe  of  whiskers  all 
around  his  face — like  a  centerpiece,  you  know.” 

The  colonel  smiled.  “This  portrait  was  painted 
early  in  life.  Our  kinsman  was  at  that  time,  I  be¬ 
lieve,  a  person  of  rather  frivolous  tendencies.  Yet 
he  was  not  quite  thirty  when  he  first  established  his 
reputation  by  his  monograph  upon  The  Evolution  of 
Marriage.  And  afterwards,  just  prior  to  his  first 
meeting  with  Goethe,  you  will  remember - ” 

“Oh,  yes!”  Miss  Stapylton  assented,  hastily;  “I  re- 
40 


PROPINQUITY 


member  perfectly.  I  know  all  about  him,  thank  you. 
And  it  was  that  beautiful  boy,  Olaf,  that  young-eyed 
cherub,  who  developed  into  a  musty  old  man  who 
wrote  musty  old  books,  and  lived  a  musty,  dusty  life 
all  by  himself,  and  never  married  or  had  any  fun  at 
all !  How  horrid ,  Olaf  !”  she  cried,  with  a  queer  shrug 
of  distaste. 

“I  fail,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave,  “to  perceive  any¬ 
thing — ah — horrid  in  a  life  devoted  to  the  study  of 
anthropology.  His  reputation  when  he  died  was  in¬ 
ternational.” 

“But  he  never  had  any  fun,  you  jay-bird!  And,  oh, 
Olaf!  Olaf!  that  boy  could  have  had  so  much  fun! 
The  world  held  so  much  for  him!  Why,  Fortune  is 
only  a  woman,  you  know,  and  what  woman  could 
have  refused  him  anything  if  he  had  smiled  at  her 
like  that  when  he  asked  for  it?” 

Miss  Stapylton  gazed  up  at  the  portrait  for  a  long 
time  now,  her  hands  clasped  under  her  chin.  Her 
face  was  gently  reproachful. 

“Oh,  boy  dear,  boy  dear !”  she  said,  with  a  forlorn 
little  quaver  in  her  voice,  “how  could  you  be  so  fool¬ 
ish?  Didn’t  you  know  there  was  something  better 
in  the  world  than  grubbing  after  musty  old  tribes  and 
customs  and  folk-songs?  Oh,  precious  child,  how 
could  you?” 

Gerald  Musgrave  smiled  back  at  her,  ambiguously; 
and  Rudolph  Musgrave  laughed.  “I  perceive,”  said 
he,  “you  are  a  follower  of  Epicurus.  For  my  part, 
I  must  have  fetched  my  ideals  from  the  tub  of  the 

4i 


Stoic.  I  can  conceive  of  no  nobler  life  than  one  de¬ 
voted  to  furthering  the  cause  of  science. ” 

She  looked  up  at  him,  with  a  wan  smile.  “A  bar¬ 
ren  life!”  she  said:  “ah,  yes,  his  was  a  wasted  life! 
His  books  are  all  out-of-date  now,  and  nobody  reads 
them,  and  it  is  just  as  if  he  had  never  been.  A  barren 
life,  Olaf!  And  that  beautiful  boy  might  have  had 
so  much  fun — Life  is  queer,  isn’t  it,  Olaf?” 

Again  he  laughed.  “The  criticism,”  he  suggested, 
“is  not  altogether  original.  And  Science,  no  less  than 
War,  must  have  her  unsung  heroes.  You  must  re¬ 
member,”  he  continued,  more  seriously,  “that  any 
great  work  must  have  as  its  foundation  the  achieve¬ 
ments  of  unknown  men.  I  fancy  that  Cheops  did 
not  lay  every  brick  in  his  pyramid  with  his  own  hand ; 
and  I  dare  say  Nebuchadnezzar  employed  a  few  help¬ 
ers  when  he  was  laying  out  his  hanging  gardens.  But 
time  cannot  chronicle  these  lesser  men.  Their  sole 
reward  must  be  the  knowledge  that  they  have  aided 
somewhat  in  the  unending  work  of  the  world.” 

Her  face  had  altered  into  a  pink  and  white  penitence 
which  was  flavored  with  awe. 

“I — I  forgot,”  she  murmured,  contritely;  “I — for¬ 
got  you  were — like  him — about  your  genealogies,  you 
know.  Oh,  Olaf,  I’m  very  silly!  Of  course,  it  is 
tremendously  fine  and — and  nice,  I  dare  say,  if  you 
like  it, — to  devote  your  life  to  learning,  as  you  and 
he  have  done.  I  forgot,  Olaf.  Still,  I  am  sorry, 
somehow,  for  that  beautiful  boy,”  she  ended,  with  a 
disconsolate  glance  at  the  portrait. 

42 


VII 


LONG  after  Miss  Stapylton  had  left  him,  the 
colonel  sat  alone  in  his  study,  idle  now,  and 
musing  vaguely.  There  were  no  more  ad¬ 
denda  concerning  the  descendants  of  Captain  Thomas 
Osborne  that  night. 

At  last,  the  colonel  rose  and  threw  open  a  window, 
and  stood  looking  into  the  moonlit  garden.  The  world 
bathed  in  a  mist  of  blue  and  silver.  There  was  a 
breeze  that  brought  him  sweet,  warm  odors  from  the 
garden,  together  with  a  blurred  shrilling  of  crickets 
and  the  conspiratorial  conference  of  young  leaves. 

“Of  course,  it  is  tremendously  fine  and — and  nice, 
if  you  like  it,”  he  said,  with  a  faint  chuckle.  “I 
wonder,  now,  if  I  do  like  it?” 

He  was  strangely  moved.  He  seemed,  somehow, 
to  survey  Rudolph  Musgrave  and  all  his  doings  with 
complete  and  unconcerned  aloofness.  The  man’s  life, 
seen  in  its  true  proportions,  dwindled  into  the  merest 
flicker  of  a  match;  he  had  such  a  little  while  to  live, 
this  Rudolph  Musgrave!  And  he  spent  the  serious 
hours  of  this  brief  time  writing  notes  and  charts 

43 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


and  pamphlets  that  perhaps  some  hundred  men  in  all 
the  universe  might  care  to  read — pamphlets  no  bet¬ 
ter  and  no  more  accurate  than  hundreds  of  other  men 
were  writing  at  that  very  moment. 

No,  the  capacity  for  originative  and  enduring  work 
was  not  in  him;  and  this  incessant  compilation  of 
dreary  footnotes,  this  incessant  rummaging  among 
the  bones  of  the  dead — did  it,  after  all,  mean  more 
to  this  Rudolph  Musgrave  than  one  full,  vivid  hour 
of  life  in  that  militant  world  yonder,  where  men 
fought  for  other  and  more  tangible  prizes  than  the 
mention  of  one’s  name  in  a  genealogical  journal? 

He  could  not  have  told  you.  In  his  heart,  he 
knew  that  a  thorough  digest  of  the  Wills  and  Or¬ 
ders  of  the  Orphans’  Court  of  any  county  must  al¬ 
ways  rank  as  a  useful  and  creditable  performance; 
but,  from  without,  the  sounds  and  odors  of  Spring 
were  calling  to  him,  luring  him,  wringing  his  very 
heart,  bidding  him  come  forth  into  the  open  and  crack 
a  jest  or  two  before  he  died,  and  stare  at  the  girls 
a  little  before  the  match  had  flickered  out. 

*  *  * 

At  this  time  he  heard  a  moaning  noise.  The  colonel 
gave  a  shrug,  sighed,  and  ascended  to  his  sister’s 
bedroom.  He  knew  that  Agatha  must  be  ill;  and 
that  there  is  no  more  efficient  quietus  to  wildish  medi¬ 
tations  than  the  heating  of  hot-water  bottles  and  the 
administration  of  hypnotics  he  had  long  ago  discov¬ 
ered. 


44 


PART  TWO 


RENASCENCE 


“As  one  imprisoned  that  hath  lain  alone 
And  dreamed  of  sunlight  where  no  vagrant  gleam 
Of  sunlight  pierces,  being  freed,  must  deem 
This  too  but  dreaming,  and  must  dread  the  sun 
Whose  glory  dazzles, — even  as  such-an-one 
Am  I  whose  longing  was  but  now  supreme 
For  this  high  hour,  and,  now  it  strikes,  esteem 
I  do  but  dream  long  dreamed-of  goals  are  won. 

“Phyllis,  I  am  not  worthy  of  thy  love. 

I  pray  thee  let  no  kindly  word  be  said 
Of  me  at  all,  for  in  the  train  thereof, 

Whenas  yet-parted  lips,  sigh-visited, 

End  speech  and  wait,  mine  when  I  will  to  move, 
Such  joy  awakens  that  I  grow  afraid.” 

Thomas  Rowland.  Triumphs  of  Phyllis. 


I 


THEY  passed  with  incredible  celerity,  those  next 
ten  days — those  strange,  delicious,  topsy¬ 
turvy  days.  To  Rudolph  Musgrave  it 
seemed  afterward  that  he  had  dreamed  them  away 
in  some  vague  Lotus  Land — in  a  delectable  coun¬ 
try  where,  he  remembered,  there  were  always  pur¬ 
ple  eyes  that  mocked  you,  and  red  lips  that  coaxed 
you  now,  and  now  cast  gibes  at  you. 

You  felt,  for  the  most  part  of  your  stay  in  this 
country,  flushed  and  hot  and  uncomfortable  and  un¬ 
believably  awkward,  and  you  were  mercilessly  be¬ 
deviled  there;  but  not  for  all  the  accumulated  wealth 
of  Samarkand  and  Ind  and  Ophir  would  you  have 
had  it  otherwise.  Ah,  no,  not  otherwise  in  the  least 
trifle.  For  now  uplifted  to  a  rosy  zone  of  acqui¬ 
escence,  you  partook  incuriously  at  table  of  nectar  and 
ambrosia,  and  noted  abroad,  without  any  surprise, 
that  you  trod  upon  a  more  verdant  grass  than  usual, 
and  that  someone  had  polished  up  the  sun  a  bit ;  and, 
in  fine,  you  snatched  a  fearful  joy  from  the  per¬ 
formance  of  the  most  trivial  functions  of  life. 

47 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


Yet  always  he  remembered  that  it  could  not  last; 
always  he  remembered  that  in  the  autumn  Patricia 
was  to  marry  Lord  Pevensey.  She  sometimes  gave 
him  letters  to  mail  which  were  addressed  to  that 
nobleman.  He  wondered  savagely  what  was  in  them; 
he  posted  them  with  a  vicious  shove;  and,  for  the 
time,  they  caused  him  acute  twinges  of  misery.  But 
not  for  long;  no,  for,  in  sober  earnest,  if  some  fan¬ 
tastic  sequence  of  events  had  made  his  one  chance 
of  winning  Patricia  Stapylton  dependent  on  his  spend¬ 
ing  a  miserable  half-hour  in  her  company,  Rudolph 
Musgrave  could  not  have  done  it. 

As  for  Miss  Stapylton,  she  appeared  to  delight  in 
the  cloistered,  easy-going  life  of  Lichfield.  The 
quaint  and  beautiful  old  town  fell  short  in  nothing 
of  her  expectations,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  she 
had  previously  read  John  Charteris’s  tales  of  Lich¬ 
field, — “those  effusions  which”  (if  the  Lichfield 
Courier-Herald  is  to  be  trusted)  “have  builded,  by 
the  strength  and  witchery  of  record  and  rhyme,  ro¬ 
mance  and  poem,  a  myriad-windowed  temple  in  Lich¬ 
field’s  honor — exquisite,  luminous,  and  enduring — for 
all  the  world  to  see.” 

Miss  Stapylton  appeared  to  delight  in  the  clois¬ 
tered  easy-going  life  of  Lichfield, — that  town  which 
was  once,  as  the  outside  world  has  half-forgotten 
now,  the  center  of  America’s  wealth,  politics  and 
culture,  the  town  to  which  Europeans  compiling  “im¬ 
pressions”  of  America  devoted  one  of  their  longest 
chapters  in  the  heyday  of  Elijah  Pogram  and  Jefferson 
48 


RENASCENCE 


Brick.  But  the  War  between  the  States  has  changed 
all  that,  and  Lichfield  endures  to-day  only  as  a  pleas¬ 
ant  backwater. 

Very  pleasant,  too,  it  was  in  the  days  of  Patricia’s 
advent.  There  were  strikingly  few  young  men  about, 
to  be  sure;  most  of  them  on  reaching  maturity  had 
settled  in  more  bustling  regions.  But  many  maidens 
remained  whom  memory  delights  to  catalogue, — tall, 
brilliant  Lizzie  Allardyce,  the  lovely  and  cattish 
Marian  Winwood,  to  whom  Felix  Kennaston  wrote 
those  wonderful  love-letters  which  she  published  when 
he  married  Kathleen  Saumarez,  the  rich  Baugh  heir¬ 
esses  from  Georgia,  the  Pride  twins,  and  Mattie 
Ferneyhaugh,  whom  even  rival  beauties  loved,  they 
say,  and  other  damsels  by  the  score, — all  in  due  time 
to  be  wooed  and  won,  and  then  to  pass  out  of  the 
old  town’s  life. 

Among  the  men  of  Rudolph  Musgrave’s  generation 
* — those  gallant  oldsters  who  were  born  and  bred,  and 
meant  to  die,  in  Lichfield, — Patricia  did  not  lack  for 
admirers.  Tom  May  was  one  of  them,  of  course; 
rarely  a  pretty  face  escaped  the  tribute  of  at  least 
one  proposal  from  Tom  May.  Then  there  was  Rod¬ 
erick  Taunton,  he  with  the  leonine  mane,  who  spared 
her  none  of  his  forensic  eloquence,  but  found  Pa¬ 
tricia  less  tractable  than  the  most  stubborn  of  juries. 
Bluff  Walter  Thurman,  too,  who  was  said  to  know 
more  of  Dickens,  whist  and  criminal  law  than  any 
other  man  living,  came  to  worship  at  her  shrine,  as 
likewise  did  huge  red-faced  Ashby  Bland,  famed  for 

49 


that  cavalry  charge  which  history-books  tell  you  that 
he  led,  and  at  which  he  actually  was  not  present,  for 
reasons  all  Lichfield  knew  and  chuckled  over.  And 
Courtney  Thorpe  and  Charles  Maupin,  doctors  of  the 
flesh  and  the  spirit  severally,  were  others  among  the 
rivals  who  gathered  about  Patricia  at  decorous  festi¬ 
vals  when,  candles  lighted,  the  butler  and  his  under¬ 
lings  came  with  trays  of  delectable  things  to  eat,  and 
the  “nests”  of  tables  were  set  out,  and  pleasant  chatter 
abounded. 

And  among  Patricia’s  attendants  Colonel  Musgrave, 
it  is  needless  to  relate,  was  preeminently  pertina¬ 
cious.  The  two  found  a  deal  to  talk  about,  somehow, 
though  it  is  doubtful  if  many  of  their  comments 
were  of  sufficient  importance  or  novelty  to  merit 
record.  Then,  also,  he  often  read  aloud  to  her  from 
lovely  books,  for  the  colonel  read  admirably  and  did 
not  scruple  to  give  emotional  passages  their  value. 
Trilby ,  published  the  preceding  spring  in  book  form, 
was  one  of  these  books,  for  all  this  was  at  a  very 
remote  period;  and  the  Rubaiyat  was  another,  for 
that  poem  was  as  yet  unhackneyed  and  hardly  well- 
known  enough  to  be  parodied  in  those  happy  days. 

Once  he  read  to  her  that  wonderful  sad  tale  of 
Hans  Christian  Andersen’s  which  treats  of  the  china 
chimney-sweep  and  the  shepherdess,  who  eloped  from 
their  bedizened  tiny  parlor-table,  and  were  fright¬ 
ened  by  the  vastness  of  the  world  outside,  and  crept 
ignominiously  back  to  their  fit  home.  “And  so,” 
the  colonel  ended,  “the  little  china  people  remained 
50 


RENASCENCE 


together,  and  were  thankful  for  the  rivet  in  grand¬ 
father’s  neck,  and  continued  to  love  each  other  until 
they  were  broken  to  pieces.” 

“It  was  really  a  very  lucky  thing,”  Patricia  esti¬ 
mated,  “that  the  grandfather  had  a  rivet  in  his  neck 
and  couldn’t  nod  to  the  billy-goat-legged  person  to 
take  the  shepherdess  away  into  his  cupboard.  I  don’t 
doubt  the  little  china  people  were  glad  of  it.  But 
after  climbing  so  far — and  seeing  the  stars, — I  think 
they  ought  to  have  had  more  to  be  glad  for.”  Her 
voice  was  quaintly  wistful. 

“I  will  let  you  into  a  secret — er — Patricia.  That 
rivet  was  made  out  of  the  strongest  material  in  the 
whole  universe.  And  the  old  grandfather  was  glad, 
at  bottom,  he  had  it  in  his  neck  so  that  he  couldn’t 
nod  and  separate  the  shepherdess  from  the  chimney¬ 
sweep.” 

“Yes, — I  guess  he  had  been  rather  a  rip  among  the 
bric-a-brac  in  his  day  and  sympathized  with  them?” 

“No,  it  wasn’t  just  that.  You  see  these  little 
china  people  had  forsaken  their  orderly  comfortable 
world  on  the  parlor  table  to  climb  very  high.  It 
was  a  brave  thing  to  do,  even  though  they  faltered 
and  came  back  after  a  while.  It  is  what  we  all  want 
to  do,  Patricia — to  climb  toward  the  stars, — even 
those  of  us  who  are  too  lazy  or  too  cowardly  to  at¬ 
tempt  it.  And  when  others  try  it,  we  are  envious 
and  a  little  uncomfortable,  and  we  probably  scoff; 
but  we  can’t  help  admiring,  and  there  is  a  rivet  in 
the  neck  of  all  of  us  which  prevents  us  from  inter- 

51 


nt  0f 


lLLfDiQlb 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


fering.  Oh,  yes,  we  little  china  people  have  a  variety 
of  rivets,  thank  God,  to  prevent  too  frequent  nodding 
and  too  cowardly  a  compromise  with  baseness, — rivets 
that  are  a  part  of  us  and  force  us  into  flashes  of 
upright  living,  almost  in  spite  of  ourselves,  when 
duty  and  inclination  grapple.  There  is  always  the 
thing  one  cannot  do  for  the  reason  that  one  is  con¬ 
stituted  as  one  is.  That,  I  take  it,  is  the  real  rivet 
in  grandfather’s  neck  and  everybody  else’s.” 

He  spoke  disjointedly,  vaguely,  but  the  girl  nodded. 
“I  think  I  understand,  Olaf.  Only,  it  is  a  two-edged 
rivet — to  mix  metaphors — and  keeps  us  stiffnecked 
against  all  sorts  of  calls.  No,  I  am  not  sure  that  the 
thing  one  cannot  do  because  one  is  what  one  is,  proves 
to  be  always  a  cause  for  international  jubilations  and 
fireworks  on  the  lawn.” 


52 


II 


THUS  Lichfield,  as  to  its  staid  trousered  citi¬ 
zenry,  fell  prostrate  at  Miss  Stapylton’s  feet, 
and  as  to  the  remainder  of  its  adults,  vocifer¬ 
ously  failed  to  see  anything  in  the  least  remarkable 
in  her  appearance,  and  avidly  took  and  compared 
notes  as  to  her  personal  apparel. 

“You  have  brought  Asmodeus  into  Lichfield,” 
Colonel  Musgrave  one  day  rebuked  Miss  Stapylton, 
as  they  sat  in  the  garden.  “The  demon  of  pride  and 
dress  is  rampant  everywhere — er — Patricia.  Even 
Agatha  does  her  hair  differently  now;  and  in  church 
last  Sunday  I  counted  no  less  than  seven  duplicates 
of  that  blue  hat  of  yours.” 

Miss  Stapylton  was  moved  to  mirth.  “Fancy  your 
noticing  a  thing  like  that!”  said  she.  “I  didn’t  know 
you  were  even  aware  I  had  a  blue  hat.” 

“I  am  no  judge,”  he  conceded,  gravely,  “of  such 
fripperies.  I  don’t  pretend  to  be.  But,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  must  plead  guilty  to  deriving  considerable 
harmless  amusement  from  your  efforts  to  dress  as  an 
example  and  an  irritant  to  all  Lichfield.” 


53' 


“You  wouldn't  have  me  a  dowd,  Olaf?"  said  she, 
demurely.  “I  have  to  be  neat  and  tidy,  you  know. 
You  wouldn't  have  me  going  about  in  a  continuous 
state  of  unbuttonedness  and  black  bombazine  like  Mrs. 
Rabbet,  would  you?" 

Rudolph  Musgrave  debated  as  to  this.  “I  dare 
say,"  he  at  last  conceded,  cautiously,  “that  to  the 
casual  eye  your  appearance  is  somewhat — er — more 
pleasing  than  that  of  our  rector's  wife.  But,  on  the 
other  hand - " 

“Olaf,  I  am  embarrassed  by  such  fulsome  eulogy. 
Mrs.  Rabbet  isn't  a  day  under  forty-nine.  And  you 
consider  me  somewhat  better-looking  than  she  is !" 

He  inspected  her  critically,  and  was  confirmed  in 
his  opinion. 

“Olaf" — coaxingly — “do  you  really  think  I  am  as 
ugly  as  that?" 

“Pouf !"  said  the  colonel  airily ;  “I  dare  say  you  are 
well  enough." 

“Olaf" — and  this  was  even  more  cajoling — “do  you 
know  you’ve  never  told  me  what  sort  of  a  woman 
you  most  admire?" 

“I  don’t  admire  any  of  them,"  said  Colonel  Mus¬ 
grave,  stoutly.  “They  are  too  vain  and  frivolous — 
especially  the  pink-and-white  ones,"  he  added,  un- 
kindlily. 

“Cousin  Agatha  has  told  me  all  about  your  multi¬ 
farious  affairs  of  course.  She  depicts  you  as  a  sort 
of  cardiacal  buccaneer  and  visibly  gloats  over  the 
tale  of  your  enormities.  She  is  perfectly  dear  about 

54 


RENASCENCE 


it.  But  have  you  never — cared — for  any  woman, 
Olaf  ?” 

Precarious  ground,  this !  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
her  now.  And  hers,  for  doubtless  sufficient  reasons, 
were  curiously  intent  upon  anything  in  the  universe 
rather  than  Rudolph  Musgrave. 

“Yes,”  said  he,  with  a  little  intake  of  the  breath; 
“yes,  I  cared  once.” 

“And — she  cared?”  asked  Miss  Stapylton. 

She  happened,  even  now,  not  to  be  looking  at  him. 

“She!”  Rudolph  Musgrave  cried,  in  real  surprise. 
“Why,  God  bless  my  soul,  of  course  she  didn’t!  She 
didn’t  know  anything  about  it.” 

“You  never  told  her,  Olaf?” — and  this  was  re¬ 
proachful.  Then  Patricia  said:  “Well!  and  did  she 
go  down  in  the  cellar  and  get  the  wood-ax  or  was 
she  satisfied  just  to  throw  the  bric-a-brac  at  you?” 

And  Colonel  Musgrave  laughed  aloud. 

“Ah!”  said  he;  “it  would  have  been  a  brave  jest  if 
I  had  told  her,  wouldn’t  it?  She  was  young,  you 
see,  and  wealthy,  and — ah,  well,  I  won’t  deceive  you 
by  exaggerating  her  personal  attractions !  I  will 
serve  up  to  you  no  praises  of  her  sauced  with  lies. 
And  I  scorn  to  fall  back  on  the  stock-in-trade  of  the 
poets, — all  their  silly  metaphors  and  similes  and  such¬ 
like  nonsense.  I  won’t  tell  you  that  her  complexion 
reminded  me  of  roses  swimming  in  milk,  for  it  did 
nothing  of  the  sort.  Nor  am  I  going  to  insist  that 
her  eyes  had  a  fire  like  that  of  stars,  or  proclaim 
that  Cupid  was  in  the  habit  of  lighting  his  torch 

55 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


from  them.  I  don’t  think  he  was.  I  would  like 
to  have  caught  the  brat  taking  any  such  liberties 
with  those  innocent,  humorous,  unfathomable  eyes 
of  hers!  And  they  didn’t  remind  me  of  violets, 
either,”  he  pursued,  belligerently,  “nor  did  her  mouth 
look  to  me  in  the  least  like  a  rosebud,  nor  did  I  have 
the  slightest  difficulty  in  distinguishing  between  her 
hands  and  lilies.  I  consider  these  hyperbolical  figures 
of  speech  to  be  idiotic.  Ah,  no!”  cried  Colonel  Mus- 
grave,  warming  to  his  subject — and  regarding  it,  too, 
very  intently;  “ah,  no,  a  face  that  could  be  patched 
together  at  the  nearest  florist’s  would  not  haunt  a 
man’s  dreams  o’nights,  as  hers  does!  I  haven’t  any 
need  for  praises  sauced  with  lies !  I  spurn  hyperbole. 
I  scorn  exaggeration.  I  merely  state  calmly  and  ju¬ 
dicially  that  she  was  God’s  masterpiece, — the  most 
beautiful  and  adorable  and  indescribable  creature  that 
He  ever  made.” 

She  smiled  at  this.  “You  should  have  told  her, 
Olaf,”  said  Miss  Stapylton.  “You  should  have  told 
her  that  you  cared.” 

He  gave  a  gesture  of  dissent.  “She  had  every¬ 
thing,”  he  pointed  out,  “everything  the  world  could 
afford  her.  And,  doubtless,  she  would  have  been  very 
glad  to  give  it  all  up  for  me,  wouldn’t  she? — for 
me,  who  haven’t  youth  or  wealth  or  fame  or  any¬ 
thing?  Ah,  I  dare  say  she  would  have  been  delighted 
to  give  up  the  world  she  knew  and  loved, — the  world 
that  loved  her, — for  the  privilege  of  helping  me  digest 
old  county  records!” 

56 


RENASCENCE 


And  Rudolph  Musgrave  laughed  again,  though  not 
mirthfully. 

But  the  girl  was  staring  at  him,  with  a  vague  trouble 
in  her  eyes.  “You  should  have  told  her,  Olaf,”  she 
repeated. 

And  at  this  point  he  noted  that  the  arbutus-flush 
in  her  cheeks  began  to  widen  slowly,  until,  at  last, 
it  had  burned  back  to  the  little  pink  ears,  and  had 
merged  into  the  coppery  glory  of  her  hair,  and  had 
made  her,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible — which  a 
minute  ago  it  manifestly  was  not, — more  beautiful 
and  adorable  and  indescribable  than  ever  before. 

“Ah,  yes!”  he  scoffed,  “Lichfield  would  have  made 
a  fitting  home  for  her.  She  would  have  been  very 
happy  here,  shut  off  from  the  world  with  us, — with 
us,  whose  forefathers  have  married  and  intermar¬ 
ried  with  one  another  until  the  stock  is  worthless, 
and  impotent  for  any  further  achievement.  For  here, 
you  know,  we  have  the  best  blood  in  America,  and 
— for  utilitarian  purposes — that  means  the  worst 
blood.  Ah,  we  may  prate  of  our  superiority  to  the 
rest  of  the  world, — and  God  knows,  we  do! — but,  at 
bottom,  we  are  worthless.  We  are  worn  out,  I  tell 
you!  we  are  effete  and  stunted  in  brain  and  will¬ 
power,  and  the  very  desire  of  life  is  gone  out  of  us! 
We  are  contented  simply  to  exist  in  Lichfield.  And 
she - ” 

He  paused,  and  a  new,  fierce  light  came  into  his 
eyes.  “She  was  so  beautiful!”  he  said,  half-angrily, 
between  clenched  teeth. 


5  7 


“You  are  just  like  the  rest  of  them,  Olaf,”  she 
lamented,  with  a  hint  of  real  sadness.  “You  imagine 
you  are  in  love  with  a  girl  because  you  happen  to 
like  the  color  of  her  eyes,  or  because  there  is  a  curve 
about  her  lips  that  appeals  to  you.  That  isn’t  love, 
Olaf,  as  we  women  understand  it.  Ah,  no,  a  girl’s 
love  for  a  man  doesn’t  depend  altogether  upon  his 
fitness  to  be  used  as  an  advertisement  for  somebody’s 
ready-made  clothing.” 

“You  fancy  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about,” 
said  Rudolph  Musgrave,  “but  you  don’t.  You  don’t 
realize,  you  see,  how  beautiful  she — was.” 

And  this  time,  he  nearly  tripped  upon  the  tense, 
for  her  hand  was  on  his  arm,  and,  in  consequence, 
a  series  of  warm,  delicious  little  shivers  was  running 
about  his  body  in  a  fashion  highly  favorable  to  ex¬ 
treme  perturbation  of  mind. 

“You  should  have  told  her,  Olaf,”  she  said,  wist¬ 
fully.  “Oh,  Olaf,  Olaf,  why  didn’t  you  tell  her?” 

She  did  not  know,  of  course,  how  she  was  tempt¬ 
ing  him;  she  did  not  know,  of  course,  how  her  least 
touch  seemed  to  waken  every  pulse  in  his  body  to 
an  aching  throb,  and  set  hope  and  fear  a-drumming 
in  his  breast.  Obviously,  she  did  not  know;  and  it 
angered  him  that  she  did  not. 

“She  would  have  laughed  at  me,”  he  said,  with 
a  snarl;  “how  she  would  have  laughed!” 

“She  wouldn’t  have  laughed,  Olaf.”  And,  indeed, 
she  did  not  look  as  if  she  would. 

“But  much  you  know  of  her!”  said  Rudolph  Mus- 

58 


RENASCENCE 


grave,  morosely.  “She  was  just  like  the  rest  of  them, 
I  tell  you!  She  knew  how  to  stare  a  man  out  of 
countenance  with  big  purple  eyes  that  were  like  vio¬ 
lets  with  the  dew  on  them,  and  keep  her  paltry  pink- 
and-white  baby  face  all  pensive  and  sober,  till  the 
poor  devil  went  stark,  staring  mad,  and  would  have 
pawned  his  very  soul  to  tell  her  that  he  loved  her! 
She  knew!  She  did  it  on  purpose.  She  would  look 
pensive  just  to  make  an  ass  of  you!  She — — ” 

And  here  the  colonel  set  his  teeth  for  a  moment, 
and  resolutely  drew  back  from  the  abyss. 

“She  would  not  have  cared  for  me,”  he  said,  with 
a  shrug.  “I  was  not  exactly  the  sort  of  fool  she 
cared  for.  What  she  really  cared  for  was  a  young 
fool  who  could  dance  with  her  in  this  silly  new¬ 
fangled  gliding  style,  and  send  her  flowers  and  sweet¬ 
meats,  and  make  love  to  her  glibly — and  a  petti- 
coated  fool  who  would  envy  her  fine  feathers, — and, 
at  last,  a  knavish  fool  who  would  barter  his  title  for 
her  money.  She  preferred  fools,  you  see,  but  she 
would  never  have  cared  for  a  middle-aged  penni¬ 
less  fool  like  me.  And  so,”  he  ended,  with  a  vicious 
outburst  of  mendacity,  “I  never  told  her,  and  she 
married  a  title  and  lived  unhappily  in  gilded  splendor 
ever  afterwards.” 

“You  should  have  told  her,  Olaf,”  Miss  Stapylton 
persisted;  and  then  she  asked,  in  a  voice  that  came 
very  near  being  inaudible:  “Is  it  too  late  to  tell  her 
now,  Olaf?”. 

The  stupid  man  opened  his  lips  a  little,  and  stood 

59 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER'S  NECK 


staring  at  her  with  hungry  eyes,  wondering  if  it 
were  really  possible  that  she  did  not  hear  the  pound¬ 
ing  of  his  heart;  and  then  his  teeth  clicked,  and 
he  gave  a  despondent  gesture. 

“Yes,"  he  said,  wearily,  “it  is  too  late  now." 

Thereupon  Miss  Stapylton  tossed  her  head.  “Oh, 
very  well !”  said  she ;  “only,  for  my  part,  I  think  you 
acted  very  foolishly,  and  I  don’t  see  that  you  have 
the  least  right  to  complain.  I  quite  fail  to  see  how 
you  could  have  expected  her  to  marry  you — or,  in 
fact,  how  you  can  expect  any  woman  to  marry  you, 

' — if  you  won’t,  at  least,  go  to  the  trouble  of  asking 
her  to  do  so!” 

Then  Miss  Stapylton  went  into  the  house,  and 
slammed  the  door  after  her. 


60 


Ill 


NOR  was  that  the  worst  of  it.  For  when  Ru¬ 
dolph  Musgrave  followed  her — as  he  pres¬ 
ently  did,  in  a  state  of  considerable  amaze, 
* — his  sister  informed  him  that  Miss  Stapylton  had 
retired  to  her  room  with  an  unaccountable  headache. 

And  there  she  remained  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 
It  was  an  unusually  long  evening. 

Yet,  somehow,  in  spite  of  its  notable  length — af- 
fording,  as  it  did,  an  excellent  opportunity  for  un¬ 
disturbed  work, — Colonel  Musgrave  found,  with  a 
pricking  conscience,  that  he  made  astonishingly  slight 
progress  in  an  exhaustive  monograph  upon  the  frag¬ 
mentary  Orderly  Book  of  an  obscure  captain  in 
a  long-forgotten  regiment,  which  if  it  had  not  actu¬ 
ally  served  in  the  Revolution,  had  at  least  been  demon¬ 
strably  granted  money  “for  services,”  and  so  entitled 
hundreds  of  aspirants  to  become  the  Sons  (or  Daugh¬ 
ters)  of  various  international  disagreements. 

Nor  did  he  see  her  at  breakfast — nor  at  dinner. 


6l 


IV 


A  CURIOUS  little  heartache  accompanied 
Colonel  Musgrave  on  his  way  home  that 
afternoon.  He  had  not  seen  Patricia  Sta- 
pylton  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  he  was  just  begin¬ 
ning  to  comprehend  what  life  would  be  like  without 
her.  He  did  not  find  the  prospect  exhilarating. 

Then,  as  he  came  up  the  orderly  graveled  walk, 
he  heard,  issuing  from  the  little  vine-covered  sum¬ 
mer-house,  a  loud  voice.  It  was  a  man's  voice,  and 
its  tones  were  angry. 

“No!  no!”  the  man  was  saying;  “I’ll  agree  to  no 
such  nonsense,  I  tell  you!  What  do  you  think  I  am?” 

“I  think  you  are  a  jackass-fool,”  Miss  Stapylton 
said,  crisply,  “and  a  fortune-hunter,  and  a  sot,  and 
a  travesty,  and  a  whole  heap  of  other  things  I  haven’t 
as  yet  had  time  to  look  up  in  the  dictionary.  And 
I  think — I  think  you  call  yourself  an  English  gentle¬ 
man?  Well,  all  I  have  to  say  is  God  pity  England 
if  her  gentlemen  are  of  your  stamp!  There  isn’t  a 
costermonger  in  all  Whitechapel  who  would  dare  talk 
to  me  as  you’ve  done!  I  would  like  to  snatch  you 
62 


RENASCENCE 


bald-headed,  I  would  like  to  kill  you — 'And  do  you 
think,  now,  if  you  were  the  very  last  man  left  in 
all  the  world  that  I  would — No,  don't  you  try  to  an¬ 
swer  me,  for  I  don't  wish  to  hear  a  single  word  you 
have  to  say.  Oh,  oh !  how  dare  you !" 

“Well,  I've  had  provocation  enough,"  the  man's 
voice  retorted,  sullenly.  “Perhaps,  I  have  cut  up  a  bit 
rough,  Patricia,  but,  then,  you’ve  been  talkin'  like  a 
fool,  you  know.  But  what's  the  odds?  Let’s  kiss  and 
make  up,  old  girl." 

“Don’t  touch  me!"  she  panted;  “ah,  don’t  you 
dare!” 

“You  little  devil!  you  infernal  little  vixen!  You’ll 
jilt  me,  will  you?" 

“Let  me  go!"  the  girl  cried,  sharply.  Rudolph 
Musgrave  went  into  the  summer-house. 

The  man  Colonel  Musgrave  found  there  was  big 
and  loose-jointed,  with  traces  of  puffiness  about  his 
face.  He  had  wheat-colored  hair  and  weakish-look- 
ing,  pale  blue  eyes.  One  of  his  arms  was  about  Miss 
Stapylton,  but  he  released  her  now,  and  blinked  at 
Rudolph  Musgrave. 

“And  who  are  you,  pray?"  he  demanded,  queru¬ 
lously.  “What  do  you  want,  anyhow  ?  What  do  you 
mean  by  sneakin'  in  here  and  tappin'  on  a  fellow’s 
shoulder — like  a  damn'  woodpecker,  by  Jove !  I  don’t 
know  you." 

There  was  in  Colonel  Musgrave's  voice  a  curious 
tremor,  when  he  spoke;  but  to  the  eye  he  was  unruf¬ 
fled,  even  faintly  amused. 

63 


“I  am  the  owner  of  this  garden,”  he  enunciated, 
with  leisurely  distinctness,  “and  it  is  not  my  custom 
to  permit  gentlewomen  to  be  insulted  in  it.  So  I  am 
afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  it.” 

“Now,  see  here,”  the  man  blustered,  weakly,  “we 
don’t  want  any  heroics,  you  know.  See  here,  you’re 
her  cousin,  ain’t  you?  By  God,  I’ll  leave  it  to  you, 
you  know !  She’s  treated  me  badly,  don’t  you  under¬ 
stand.  She’s  a  jilt,  you  know.  She’s  playin’  fast  and 
loose - ” 

He  never  got  any  further,  for  at  this  point  Ru¬ 
dolph  Musgrave  took  him  by  the  coat-collar  and  half- 
dragged,  half-pushed  him  through  the  garden,  shaking 
him  occasionally  with  a  quiet  emphasis.  The  colonel 
was  angry,  and  it  was  a  matter  of  utter  indifference 
to  him  that  they  were  trampling  over  flower-beds, 
and  leaving  havoc  in  their  rear. 

But  when  they  had  reached  the  side-entrance,  he 
paused  and  opened  it,  and  then  shoved  his  companion 
into  an  open  field,  where  a  number  of  cows,  fresh 
from  the  evening  milking,  regarded  them  with  in¬ 
curious  eyes.  It  was  very  quiet  here,  save  for  the 
occasional  jangle  of  the  cow-bells  and  the  far-off  fifing 
of  frogs  in  the  marsh  below. 

“It  would  have  been  impossible,  of  course,”  said 
Colonel  Musgrave,  “for  me  to  have  offered  you  any 
personal  violence  as  long  as  you  were,  in  a  manner, 
a  guest  of  mine.  This  field,  however,  is  the  property 
of  Judge  Willoughby,  and  here  I  feel  at  liberty  to 
thrash  you.” 

64 


RENASCENCE 


Then  he  thrashed  the  man  who  had  annoyed  Pa¬ 
tricia  Stapylton. 

That  thrashing  was,  in  its  way,  a  masterpiece. 
There  was  a  certain  conscientiousness  about  it,  a  cer¬ 
tain  thoroughness  of  execution — a  certain  plodding 
and  painstaking  carefulness,  in  a  word,  such  as  is  pos¬ 
sible  only  to  those  who  have  spent  years  in  guiding 
fat-witted  tourists  among  the  antiquities  of  the  Lich¬ 
field  Historical  Association. 

“You  ought  to  exercise  more,”  Rudolph  Musgrave 
admonished  his  victim,  when  he  had  ended.  “You 
are  entirely  too  flabby  now,  you  know.  That  path 
yonder  will  take  you  to  the  hotel,  where,  I  imagine, 
you  are  staying.  There  is  a  train  leaving  Lichfield 
at  six-fifteen,  and  if  I  were  you,  I  would  be  very 
careful  not  to  miss  that  train.  Good-evening.  I  am 
sorry  to  have  been  compelled  to  thrash  you,  but  I 
must  admit  I  have  enjoyed  it  exceedingly.,, 

Then  he  went  back  into  the  garden. 


65 


V 


IN  the  shadow  of  a  white  lilac-bush,  Colonel  Mus- 
grave  paused  with  an  awed  face. 

“Good  Lord!”  said  he,  aghast  at  the  notion; 
“what  would  Agatha  say  if  she  knew  I  had  been 
fighting  like  a  drunken  truck-driver !  Or,  rather,  what 
would  she  refrain  from  saying!  Only,  she  wouldn't 
believe  it  of  me.  And,  for  the  matter  of  that,”  Ru¬ 
dolph  Musgrave  continued,  after  a  moments  reflec¬ 
tion,  “I  wouldn’t  have  believed  it  of  myself  a  week 
ago.  I  think  I  am  changing,  somehow.  A  week  ago 
I  would  have  fetched  in  the  police  and  sworn  out  a 
warrant;  and,  if  the  weather  had  been  as  damp  as  it 
is,  I  would  have  waited  to  put  on  my  rubbers  before 
I  would  have  done  that  much.” 


66 


HE  found  her  still  in  the  summer-house,  ex¬ 
pectant  of  him,  it  seemed,  her  lips  parted, 
her  eyes  glowing.  Rudolph  Musgrave,  look¬ 
ing  down  into  twin  vivid  depths,  for  a  breathing-space, 
found  time  to  rejoice  that  he  had  refused  to  liken 
them  to  stars.  Stars,  forsooth ! — and,  pray,  what  pal¬ 
try  sun,  what  irresponsible  comet,  what  pallid,  clink- 
ered  satellite,  might  boast  a  purple  splendor  such  as 
this?  For  all  asterial  scintillations,  at  best,  had  but 
a  clap-trap  glitter;  whereas  the  glow  of  Patricia’s  eyes 
was  a  matter  worthy  of  really  serious  attention. 

“What  have  you  done  with  him,  Olaf?”  the  girl 
breathed,  quickly. 

“I  reasoned  with  him,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave. 
“Oh,  I  found  him  quite  amenable  to  logic.  He  is 
leaving  Lichfield  this  evening,  I  think.” 

Thereupon  Miss  Stapylton  began  to  laugh.  “Yes,” 
said  she,  “you  must  have  remonstrated  very  feelingly. 
Your  tie’s  all  crooked,  Olaf  dear,  and  your  hair’s  all 
rumpled,  and  there’s  dust  all  over  your  coat.  You 
would  disgrace  a  rag-bag.  Oh,  I’m  glad  you  reasoned 

67 


— that  way!  It  wasn’t  dignified,  but  it  was  dear  of 
you,  Olaf.  Pevensey’s  a  beast.’’ 

He  caught  his  breath  at  this.  “Pevensey !”  he  stam¬ 
mered;  “the  Earl  of  Pevensey! — the  man  you  are  go¬ 
ing  to  marry!” 

“Dear  me,  no !”  Miss  Stapylton  answered,  with  ut¬ 
most  unconcern ;  “I  would  sooner  marry  a  toad.  Why, 
didn’t  you  know,  Olaf?  I  thought,  of  course,  you 
knew  you  had  been  introducing  athletics  and  better 
manners  among  the  peerage !  That  sounds  like  a  bill 

in  the  House  of  Commons,  doesn’t  it?”  Then  Miss 

• 

Stapylton  laughed  again,  and  appeared  to  be  in  a 
state  of  agreeable,  though  somewhat  nervous,  elation. 
“I  wrote  to  him  two  days  ago,”  she  afterward  ex¬ 
plained,  “breaking  off  the  engagement..  So  he  came 
down  at  once  and  was  very  nasty  about  it.” 

“You — you  have  broken  your  engagement,”  he 
echoed,  dully;  and  continued,  with  a  certain  deficiency 
of  finesse,  “But  I  thought  you  wanted  to  be  a  coun¬ 
tess?” 

“Oh,  you  boor,  you  vulgarian !”  the  girl  cried.  “Oh, 
you  do  put  things  so  crudely,  Olaf!  You  are  hope¬ 
less.” 

She  shook  an  admonitory  forefinger  in  his  direc¬ 
tion,  and  pouted  in  the  most  dangerous  fashion. 

“But  he  always  seemed  so  nice,”  she  reflected,  with 
puckered  brows,  “until  to-day,  you  know.  I  thought 
he  would  be  eminently  suitable.  I  liked  him  tremen¬ 
dously  until — «”  and  here,  a  wonderful,  tender  change 
came  into  her  face,  a  wistful  quaver  woke  in  her 
68 


RENASCENCE 


voice — “until  I  found  there  was  some  one  else  I  liked 
better.” 

“Ah!”  said  Rudolph  Musgrave. 

So,  that  was  it — yes,  that  was  it!  Her  head  was 
bowed  now — her  glorious,  proud  little  head, — and  she 
sat  silent,  an  abashed  heap  of  fluffy  frills  and  ruffles, 
a  tiny  bundle  of  vaporous  ruchings  and  filmy  tucks 
and  suchlike  vanities,  in  the  green  dusk  of  the  sum¬ 
mer-house. 

But  he  knew.  He  had  seen  her  face  grave  and  ten¬ 
der  in  the  twilight,  and  he  knew. 

She  loved  some  man — some  lucky  devil!  Ah,  yes, 
that  was  it!  And  he  knew  the  love  he  had  unwit¬ 
tingly  spied  upon  to  be  august ;  the  shamed  exultance 
of  her  face  and  her  illumined  eyes,  the  crimson  ban¬ 
ners  her  cheeks  had  flaunted, — these  were  to  Colonel 
Musgrave  as  a  piece  of  sacred  pageantry;  and  before 
it  his  misery  was  awed,  his  envy  went  posting  to 
extinction. 

Thus  the  stupid  man  reflected,  and  made  himself 
very  unhappy  over  it. 

Then,  after  a  little,  the  girl  threw  back  her  head 
and  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  flashed  a  tremulous  smile 
at  him. 

“Ah,  yes,”  said  she;  “there  are  better  things  in  life 
than  coronets,  aren’t  there,  Olaf?” 

You  should  have  seen  how  he  caught  up  the  word! 

“Life!”  he  cried,  with  a  bitter  thrill  of  speech;  “ah, 
what  do  I  know  of  life?  I  am  only  a  recluse,  a 
dreamer,  a  visionary!  You  must  learn  of  life  from 

69 


the  men  who  have  lived,  Patricia.  I  haven’t  ever 
lived.  I  have  always  chosen  the  coward’s  part.  I 
have  chosen  to  shut  myself  off  from  the  world,  to 
posture  in  a  village  all  my  days,  and  to  consider  its 
trifles  as  of  supreme  importance.  I  have  affected 
to  scorn  that  brave  world  yonder  where  a  man  is 
proven.  And,  all  the  while,  I  was  afraid  of  it,  I  think. 
I  was  afraid  of  you  before  you  came.” 

At  the  thought  of  this  Rudolph  Musgrave  laughed 
as  he  fell  to  pacing  up  and  down  before  her. 

“Life!”  he  cried,  again,  with  a  helpless  gesture; 
and  then  smiled  at  her,  very  sadly.  “  ‘Didn’t  I  know 
there  was  something  better  in  life  than  grubbing  after 
musty  tribes  and  customs  and  folk-songs  ?’  ”  he 
quoted.  “Why,  what  a  question  to  ask  of  a  profes¬ 
sional  genealogist!  Don’t  you  realize,  Patricia,  that 
the  very  bread  I  eat  is,  actually,  earned  by  the  achieve¬ 
ments  of  people  who  have  been  dead  for  centuries? 
and  in  part,  of  course,  by  tickling  the  vanity  of  living 
snobs?  That  constitutes  a  nice  trade  for  an  able- 
bodied  person  as  long  as  men  are  paid  for  emptying 
garbage-barrels — now,  doesn’t  it?  And  yet  it  is  not 
altogether  for  the  pay’s  sake  I  do  it,”  he  added,  halt¬ 
ingly.  “There  really  is  a  fascination  about  the  work. 
You  are  really  working  out  a  puzzle, — like  a  fellow 
solving  a  chess-problem.  It  isn’t  really  work,  it  is 
amusement.  And  when  you  are  establishing  a  royal 
descent,  and  tracing  back  to  czars  and  Plantagenets 
and  Merovingians,  and  making  it  all  seem  perfectly 
plausible,  the  thing  is  sheer  impudent,  flagrant  art, 
70 


RENASCENCE 


and  you  are  the  artist - ”  He  broke  off  here  and 

shrugged.  “No,  I  could  hardly  make  you  understand. 
It  doesn't  matter.  It  is  enough  that  I  have  bartered 
youth  and  happiness  and  the  very  power  of  living 
for  the  privilege  of  grubbing  in  old  county  records.” 

He  paused.  It  is  debatable  if  he  had  spoken  wisely, 
or  had  spoken  even  in  consonance  with  fact,  but  his 
outburst  had,  at  least,  the  saving  grace  of  sincerity. 
He  was  pallid  now,  shaking  in  every  limb,  and  in  his 
heart  was  a  dull  aching.  She  seemed  so  incredibly 
soft  and  little  and  childlike,  as  she  looked  up  at  him 
with  troubled  eyes. 

“I — I  don’t  quite  understand,”  she  murmured.  “It 
isn’t  as  if  you  were  an  old  man,  Olaf.  It  isn’t  as 
if - *” 

But  he  had  scarcely  heard  her.  “Ah,  child,  child !” 
he  cried,  “why  did  you  come  to  waken  me?  I  was 
content  in  my  smug  vanities.  I  was  content  in  my 
ignorance.  I  could  have  gone  on  contentedly  grub¬ 
bing  through  my  musty,  sleepy  life  here,  till  death  had 
taken  me,  if  only  you  had  not  shown  me  what  life 
might  mean!  Ah,  child,  child,  why  did  you  waken 
me?” 

“I?”  she  breathed;  and  now  the  flush  of  her  cheeks 
had  widened,  wondrously. 

“You!  you!”  he  cried,  and  gave  a  wringing  mo¬ 
tion  of  his  hands,  for  the  self-esteem  of  a  compla¬ 
cent  man  is  not  torn  away  without  agony.  “Who 
else  but  you?  I  had  thought  myself  brave  enough 
to  be  silent,  but  still  I  must  play  the  coward’s  part! 

7i 


That  woman  I  told  you  of — that  woman  I  loved — was 
you!  Yes,  you,  you!”  he  cried,  again  and  again,  in 
a  sort  of  frenzy. 

And  then,  on  a  sudden,  Colonel  Musgrave  began 
to  laugh. 

“It  is  very  ridiculous,  isn’t  it?”  he  demanded  of 
her.  “Yes,  it  is  very — very  funny.  Now  comes 
the  time  to  laugh  at  me!  Now  comes  the  time  to  lift 
your  brows,  and  to  make  keen  arrows  of  your  eyes, 
and  of  your  tongue  a  little  red  dagger!  I  have 
dreamed  of  this  moment  many  and  many  a  time.  So 
laugh,  I  say !  Laugh,  for  I  have  told  you  that  I  love 
you.  You  are  rich,  and  I  am  a  pauper — you  are 
young,  and  I  am  old,  remember, — and  I  love  you,  who 
love  another  man!  For  the  love  of  God,  laugh  at 
me  and  have  done — laugh !  for,  as  God  lives,  it  is  the 
bravest  jest  I  have  ever  known!” 

But  she  came  to  him,  with  a  wonderful  gesture 
of  compassion,  and  caught  his  great,  shapely  hands 
in  hers. 

“I — I  knew  you  cared,”  she  breathed.  “I  have  al¬ 
ways  known  you  cared.  I  would  have  been  an  idiot 
if  I  hadn’t.  But,  oh,  Olaf,  I  didn’t  know  you  cared 
so  much.  You  frighten  me,  Olaf,”  she  pleaded,  and 
raised  a  tearful  face  to  his.  “I  am  very  fond  of  you, 
Olaf  dear.  Oh,  don’t  think  I  am  not  fond  of  you.” 
And  the  girl  paused  for  a  breathless  moment.  “I 
think  I  might  have  married  you,  Olaf,”  she  said,  half- 
wistfully,  “if — if  it  hadn’t  been  for  one  thing.” 

Rudolph  Musgrave  smiled  now,  though  he  found 
72 


RENASCENCE 


* 


it  a  difficult  business.  “Yes,”  he  assented,  gravely, 
“I  know,  dear.  If  it  were  not  for  the  other  man — 
that  lucky  devil!  Yes,  he  is  a  very,  very  lucky  devil, 
child,  and  he  constitutes  rather  a  big  ‘if/  doesn’t  he?” 

Miss  Stapylton,  too,  smiled  a  little.  “No,”  said 
she,  “that  isn’t  quite  the  reason.  The  real  reason  is, 
as  I  told  you  yesterday,  that  I  quite  fail  to  see  how 
you  can  expect  any  woman  to  marry  you,  you  jay¬ 
bird,  if  you  won’t  go  to  the  trouble  of  asking  her  to 
do  so.” 

And,  this  time,  Miss  Stapylton  did  not  go  into  the 
house. 


73 


VII 


WHEN  they  went  in  to  supper,  they  had 
planned  to  tell  Miss  Agatha  of  their  earth- 
staggering  secret  at  once.  But  the  colonel 
comprehended,  at  the  first  glimpse  of  his  sister,  that  the 
opportunity  would  be  ill-chosen. 

The  meal  was  an  awkward  half-hour.  Miss  Aga¬ 
tha,  from  the  head  of  the  table,  did  very  little  talk¬ 
ing,  save  occasionally  to  evince  views  of  life  that 
were  both  lachrymose  and  pugnacious.  And  the  lov¬ 
ers  talked  with  desperate  cheerfulness,  so  that  there 
might  be  no  outbreak  so  long  as  Pilkins — preeminently 
ceremonious  among  butlers,  and  as  yet  inclined  to 
scoff  at  the  notion  that  the  Musgraves  of  Matocton 
were  not  divinely  entrusted  to  his  guardianship, — was 
in  the  room. 

Coming  so  close  upon  the  heels  of  his  high  hour, 
this  contretemps  of  Agatha’s  having  one  of  her  “at¬ 
tacks,”  seemed  more  to  Rudolph  Musgrave  than  a 
man  need  rationally  bear  with  equanimity.  Perhaps 
it  was  a  trifle  stiffly  that  he  said  he  did  not  care  for 
any  raspberries. 

74 


RENASCENCE 


His  sister  burst  into  tears. 

“That’s  all  the  thanks  I  get.  I  slave  my  life  out, 
and  what  thanks  do  I  get  for  it?  I  never  have  any 
pleasure,  I  never  put  my  foot  out  of  the  house  ex¬ 
cept  to  go  to  market, — and  what  thanks  do  I  get  for 
it?  That’s  what  I  want  you  to  tell  me  with  the  first 
raspberries  of  the  season.  That’s  what  I  want !  Oh, 
I  don’t  wonder  you  can’t  look  me  in  the  eye.  And  I 
wish  I  was  dead!  that’s  what  I  wish!” 

Colonel  Musgrave  did  not  turn  at  once  toward 
Patricia,  when  his  sister  had  stumbled,  weeping,  from 
the  dining-room. 

“I — I  am  so  sorry,  Olaf,”  said  a  remote  and  tiny 
voice. 

Then  he  touched  her  hand  with  his  finger-tips,  ever 
so  lightly.  “You  must  not  worry  about  it,  dear.  I 
daresay  I  was  unpardonably  brusque.  And  Agatha’s 
health  is  not  good,  so  that  she  is  a  trifle  irritable  at 
times.  Why,  good  Lord,  we  have  these  little  set-to’s 
ever  so  often,  and  never  give  them  a  thought  after¬ 
wards.  That  is  one  of  the  many  things  the  future 
Mrs.  Musgrave  will  have  to  get  accustomed  to,  eh? 
Or  does  that  appalling  prospect  frighten  you  too 
much  ?” 

And  Patricia  brazenly  confessed  that  it  did  not. 
She  also  made  a  face  at  him,  and  accused  Rudolph 
Musgrave  of  trying  to  crawl  out  of  marrying  her, 
which  proceeding  led  to  frivolities  unnecessary  to 
record,  but  found  delectable  by  the  participants. 


75 


VIII 


COLONEL  MUSGRAVE  was  alone.  He  had 
lifted  his  emptied  coffee-cup  and  he  swished 
the  lees  gently  to  and  fro.  He  was  curiously 
intent  upon  these  lees,  considered  them  in  the  light  of 
a  symbol.  .  .  . 

Then  a  comfortable,  pleasant- faced  mulattress 
came  to  clear  the  supper-table.  Virginia  they  called 
her.  Virginia  had  been  nurse  in  turn  to  all  the  chil¬ 
dren  of  Rudolph  Musgrave’s  parents;  and  to  the  end 
of  her  life  she  appeared  to  regard  the  emancipa¬ 
tion  of  the  South’s  negroes  as  an  irrelevant  vagary 
of  certain  “low-down”  and  probably  “ornery”  Yan¬ 
kees — as  an,  in  short,  quite  eminently  “tacky”  pro¬ 
ceeding  which  very  certainly  in  no  way  affected  her 
vested  right  to  tyrannize  over  the  Musgrave  house¬ 
hold. 

“Virginia,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave,  “don’t  forget 
to  make  up  a  fire  in  the  kitchen-stove  before  you 
go  to  bed.  And  please  fill  the  kettle  before  you  go 
upstairs,  and  leave  it  on  the  stove.  Miss  Agatha  is 
not  well  to-night.,, 

76 


RENASCENCE 


“Yaas,  suh.  I  unnerstan’,  suh,”  Virginia  said,  se¬ 
dately. 

Virginia  filled  her  tray,  and  went  away  quietly, 
her  pleasant  yellow  face  as  imperturbable  as  an  idol’s. 


77 


PART  THREE 


TERTIUS 


"It  is  in  many  ways  made  plain  to  us 
That  love  must  grow  like  any  common  thing, 
Root,  bud,  and  leaf,  ere  ripe  for  garnering 
The  mellow  fruitage  front  us ;  even  thus 
Must  Helena  encounter  Theseus 
Ere  Paris  come,  and  every  century 
Spawn  divers  queens  who  die  with  Antony 
But  live  a  great  while  first  with  Julius. 

“Thus  I  have  spoken  the  prologue  of  a  play 
Wherein  I  have  no  part,  and  laugh,  and  sit 
Contented  in  the  wings,  whilst  you  portray 
An  amorous  maid  with  gestures  that  befit 
This  lovely  role, — as  who  knows  better,  pray, 
Than  I  that  helped  you  in  rehearsing  it?” 

Horace  Symonds.  Civic  Voluntaries. 


I 


WHEN  the  Presidential  campaign  was  at  its 
height;  when  in  various  sections  of  the 
United  States  “the  boy  orator  of  La 
Platte”  was  making  invidious  remarks  concerning  the 
Republican  Party,  and  in  Canton  (Ohio)  Mr.  M.  A. 
Hanna  was  cheerfully  expressing  his  confidence  as  to 
the  outcome  of  it  all ;  when  the  Czar  and  the  Czarina 
were  visiting  President  Faure  in  Paris  “amid  unparal¬ 
leled  enthusiasm” ;  and  when  semi-educated  people 
were  appraising,  with  a  glibness  possible  to  ignorance 
only,  the  literary  achievements  of  William  Morris  and 
George  du  Maurier,  who  had  just  died : — at  this  re¬ 
mote  time,  Roger  Stapylton  returned  to  Lichfield. 

For  in  that  particular  October  Patricia’s  father,  an 
accommodating  physician  having  declared  old  Roger 
Stapylton’s  health  to  necessitate  a  Southern  sojourn, 
leased  the  Bellingham  mansion  in  Lichfield.  It  hap¬ 
pened  that,  by  rare  good  luck,  Tom  Bellingham — 
of  the  Bellinghams  of  Assequin,  not  the  Bellinghams 
of  Bellemeade,  who  indeed  immigrated  after  the  War 
of  1812  and  have  never  been  regarded  as  securely 

81 


established  from  a  social  standpoint, — was  at  this 
time  in  pecuniary  difficulties  on  account  of  having 
signed  another  person’s  name  to  a  cheque. 

Roger  Stapylton  refurnished  the  house  in  the  ex¬ 
treme  degree  of  Lichfieldian  elegance.  Colonel  Mus- 
grave  was  his  mentor  throughout  the  process;  and 
the  oldest  families  of  Lichfield  very  shortly  sat  at 
table  with  the  former  overseer,  and  not  at  all  un¬ 
willingly,  since  his  dinners  were  excellent  and  an  in¬ 
fatuated  Rudolph  Musgrave — an  axiom  now  in  plan¬ 
ning  any  list  of  guests, — was  very  shortly  to  marry 
the  man’s  daughter. 

In  fact,  the  matter  had  been  settled;  and  Colonel 
Musgrave  had  received  from  Roger  Stapylton  an  ex¬ 
uberantly  granted  charter  of  courtship. 

This  befell,  indeed,  upon  a  red  letter  day  in  Roger 
Stapylton’s  life.  The  banker  was  in  business  matters 
wonderfully  shrewd,  as  divers  transactions,  since  the 
signing  of  that  half-forgotten  contract  whereby  he 
was  to  furnish  a  certain  number  of  mules  for  the 
Confederate  service,  strikingly  attested:  but  he  had 
rarely  been  out  of  the  country  wherein  his  mother 
bore  him;  and  where  another  nabob  might  have 
dreamed  of  an  earl,  or  even  have  soared  aspiringly 
in  imagination  toward  a  marchioness-ship  for  his  only 
child,  old  Stapylton  retained  unshaken  faith  in  the 
dust-gathering  creed  of  his  youth. 

He  had  tolerated  Pevensey,  had  indeed  been  pre¬ 
pared  to  purchase  him  much  as  he  would  have  ordered 

V  _ 

any  other  expensive  trinket  or  knickknack  which  Pa- 
82 


TERTIUS 


tricia  desired.  But  he  had  never  viewed  the  match 
with  enthusiasm. 

Now,  though,  old  Stapylton  exulted.  His  daughter 
— half  a  Vartrey  already — would  become  by  marriage 
a  Musgrave  of  Matocton,  no  less.  Pat’s  carriage 
would  roll  up  and  down  the  oak-shaded  avenue  from 
which  he  had  so  often  stepped  aside  with  an  uncov¬ 
ered  head,  while  gentlemen  and  ladies  cantered  by; 
and  it  would  be  Pat’s  children  that  would  play  about 
the  corridors  of  the  old  house  at  whose  doors  he  had 
lived  so  long, — those  awe-inspiring  corridors,  which 
he  had  very  rarely  entered,  except  on  Christmas  Day 
and  other  recognized  festivities,  when,  dressed  to  the 
nines,  the  overseer  and  his  uneasy  mother  were  by 
immemorial  custom  made  free  of  the  mansion,  with 
every  slave  upon  the  big  plantation. 

“They  were  good  days,  sir,”  he  chuckled.  “Heh, 
we’ll  stick  to  the  old  customs.  We’ll  give  a  dinner 
and  announce  it  at  dessert,  just  as  your  honored 
grandfather  did  your  Aunt  Constantia’s  betrothal — ” 

For  about  the  Musgraves  of  Matocton  there  could 
be  no  question.  It  was  the  old  man’s  delight  to  induce 
Rudolph  Musgrave  to  talk  concerning  his  ancestors; 
and  Stapylton  soon  had  their  history  at  his  finger-tips. 
He  could  have  correctly  blazoned  every  tincture  in 
their  armorial  bearings  and  have  explained  the  origin 
of  every  rampant,  counter-changed  or  couchant  beast 
upon  the  shield. 

He  knew  it  was  the  Bona  Nova  in  the  November 
of  1619, — for  the  first  Musgrave  had  settled  in  Vir- 

83 


ginia,  prior  to  his  removal  to  Lichfield, — which  had 
the  honor  of  transporting  the  forebear  of  this  family 
into  America.  Stapylton  could  have  told  you  offhand 
which  scions  of  the  race  had  represented  this  or  that 
particular  county  in  the  House  of  Burgesses,  and 
even  for  what  years ;  which  three  of  them  were  Gov¬ 
ernors,  and  which  of  them  had  served  as  officers  of  the 
State  Line  in  the  Revolution;  and,  in  fine,  was  more 
than  satisfied  to  have  his  daughter  play  Penelophon  to 
Colonel  Musgrave’s  debonair  mature  Cophetua. 

In  a  word,  Roger  Stapylton  had  acquiesced  to  the 
transferal  of  his  daughter’s  affections  with  the  pe¬ 
culiar  equanimity  of  a  properly  reared  American  par¬ 
ent.  He  merely  stipulated  that,  since  his  business  af¬ 
fairs  prevented  an  indefinite  stay  in  Lichfield,  Colonel 
Musgrave  should  presently  remove  to  New  York  City, 
where  the  older  man  held  ready  for  him  a  purely 
ornamental  and  remunerative  position  with  the  Insur¬ 
ance  Company  of  which  Roger  Stapylton  was  presi¬ 
dent. 

But  upon  this  point  Rudolph  Musgrave  was  obdu¬ 
rate. 

He  had  voiced,  and  with  sincerity,  as  you  may  re¬ 
member,  his  desire  to  be  proven  upon  a  larger  stage 
than  Lichfield  afforded.  Yet  the  sincerity  was  bred 
of  an  emotion  it  did  not  survive.  To-day,  uncon¬ 
sciously,  Rudolph  Musgrave  was  reflecting  that  he 
was  used  to  living  in  Lichfield,  and  would  appear  to 
disadvantage  in  a  new  surrounding,  and  very  prob¬ 
ably  would  not  be  half  so  comfortable. 

84 


T  E  R  T  I  U  S 


Aloud  he  said,  in  firm  belief  that  he  spoke  truth¬ 
fully:  “I  cannot  conscientiously  give  up  the  Library, 
sir.  I  realize  the  work  may  not  seem  important  in 
your  eyes.  Indeed,  in  anybody’s  eyes  it  must  seem 
an  inadequate  outcome  of  a  man’s  whole  life.  But  it 
unfortunately  happens  to  be  the  only  kind  of  work 
I  am  capable  of  doing.  And — if  you  will  pardon 
me,  sir, — I  do  not  think  it  would  be  honest  for  me 
to  accept  this  generous  salary  and  give  nothing  in  re¬ 
turn.” 

But  here  Patricia  broke  in. 

Patricia  agreed  with  Colonel  Musgrave  in  every 
particular.  Indeed,  had  Colonel  Musgrave  proclaimed 
his  intention  of  setting  up  in  life  as  an  assassin,  Pa¬ 
tricia  would  readily  have  asserted  homicide  to  be  the 
most  praiseworthy  of  vocations.  As  it  was,  she  de¬ 
voted  no  little  volubility  and  emphasis  and  eulogy 
to  the  importance  of  a  genealogist  in  the  eternal 
scheme  of  things;  and  gave  her  father  candidly  to 
understand  that  an  inability  to  appreciate  this  fact 
was  necessarily  indicative  of  a  deplorably  low  order 
of  intelligence. 

Musgrave  was  to  remember — long  afterward — how 
glorious  and  dear  this  brightly-colored,  mettlesome 
and  tiny  woman  had  seemed  to  him  in  the  second 
display  of  temper  he  witnessed  in  Patricia.  It  was 
a  revelation  of  an  additional  and  as  yet  unsuspected 
adorability. 

Her  father,  though,  said :  “Pat,  I’ve  suspected  for 
a  long  time  it  was  foolish  of  me  to  have  a  red-haired 

85 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


daughter.”  Thus  he  capitulated, — and  with  an  in¬ 
effable  air  of  routine. 

Colonel  Musgrave  was,  in  a  decorous  fashion,  the 
happiest  of  living  persons. 


86 


II 


COLONEL  MUSGRAVE  was,  in  a  decorous 
fashion,  the  happiest  of  living  persons.  .  .  . 
As  a  token  of  this  he  devoted  what  little 
ready  money  he  possessed  to  renovating  Matocton, 
where  he  had  not  lived  for  twenty  years.  He  rarely 
thought  of  money,  not  esteeming  it  an  altogether  suit¬ 
able  subject  for  a  gentleman’s  meditations.  And  to 
do  him  justice,  the  reflection  that  old  Stapylton’s 
wealth  would  some  day  be  at  Rudolph  Musgrave’s 
disposal  was  never  more  than  an  agreeable  minor 
feature  of  Patricia’s  entourage  whenever,  as  was  very 
often,  Colonel  Musgrave  fell  to  thinking  of  how  ador¬ 
able  Patricia  was  in  every  particular. 

Yet  there  were  times  when  he  thought  of  Anne 
Charteris  as  well.  He  had  not  seen  her  for  a  whole 
year  now,  for  the  Charterises  had  left  Lichfield 
shortly  after  the  Pendomer  divorce  case  had  been  set¬ 
tled,  and  were  still  in  Europe. 

This  was  the  evening  during  which  Roger  Stapyl- 
ton  had  favorably  received  his  declaration ;  and 
Colonel  Musgrave  was  remembering  the  time  that  he 

8  7 


and  Anne  had  last  spcken  with  a  semblance  of  in¬ 
timacy — that  caustic  time  when  Anne  Charteris  had 
interrupted  him  in  high  words  with  her  husband,  and 
circumstances  had  afforded  to  Rudolph  Musgrave  no 
choice  save  to  confess,  to  this  too-perfect  woman, 
of  all  created  beings,  his  “true  relations”  with  Clarice 
Pendomer. 

Even  as  yet  the  bitterness  of  that  humiliation  was 
not  savorless.  .  .  . 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  never  bear  to  think 
of  the  night  when  Anne  had  heard  his  stammerings 
through,  and  had  merely  listened,  and  in  listening  had 
been  unreasonably  beautiful.  So  Godiva  might  have 
looked  on  Peeping  Tom,  with  more  of  wonder  than  of 
loathing,  just  at  first.  .  .  . 

It  had  been  very  hard  to  bear.  But  it  seemed 
necessary.  The  truth  would  have  hurt  Anne  too 
much.  .  .  . 

He  noted  with  the  gusto  of  a  connoisseur  how 
neatly  the  denouement  of  this  piteous  farce  had  been 
prepared.  His  rage  with  Charteris;  Anne’s  overhear¬ 
ing,  and  misinterpretation  of,  a  dozen  angry  words; 
that  old  affair  with  Clarice — immediately  before  her  . 
marriage  (one  of  how  many  pleasurable  gallantries? 
the  colonel  idly  wondered,  and  regretted  that  he  had 
no  Leporello  to  keep  them  catalogued  for  consul¬ 
tation) — and  George  Pendomer’s  long-smoldering 
jealousy  of  Rudolph  Musgrave:  all  fitted  in  as  neatly 
as  the  bits  of  a  puzzle. 

It  had  been  the  simplest  matter  in  the  world  to 

88 


T  E  R  T  I  U  S 


shield  John  Charteris.  Yet,  the  colonel  wished  he 
could  be  sure  it  was  an  unadulterated  desire  of  pro¬ 
tecting  Anne  which  had  moved  him.  There  had  been 
very  certainly  an  enjoyment  all  the  while  in  reflect¬ 
ing  how  nobly  Rudolph  Musgrave  was  behaving  for 
the  sake  of  “the  only  woman  he  had  ever  loved.” 
Yes,  one  had  undoubtedly  phrased  it  thus — then,  and 
until  the  time  one  met  Patricia. 

But  Anne  was  different,  and  in  the  nature  of  things 
must  always  be  a  little  different,  from  all  other  peo¬ 
ple — even  Patricia  Stapylton. 

Always  in  reverie  the  colonel  would  come  back 
to  this, — that  Anne  could  not  be  thought  of,  quite,  in 
the  same  frame  of  mind  wherein  one  appraised  other 
persons.  Especially  must  he  concede  this  curious  cir¬ 
cumstance  whenever,  as  to-night,  he  considered  divers 
matters  that  had  taken  place  quite  long  enough  ago  to 
have  been  forgotten. 

It  was  a  foolish  sort  of  a  reverie,  and  scarcely  worth 
the  setting  down.  It  was  a  reverie  of  the  kind  that 
everyone,  and  especially  everyone’s  wife,  admits  to 
be  mawkish  and  unprofitable;  and  yet,  somehow,  the 
next  still  summer  night,  or  long  sleepy  Sunday  after¬ 
noon,  or,  perhaps,  some  cheap,  jigging  and  heart¬ 
breaking  melody,  will  set  a  carnival  of  old  loves  and 
old  faces  awhirl  in  the  brain.  One  grows  very  sad 
over  it,  of  course,  and  it  becomes  apparent  that  one 
has  always  been  ill-treated  by  the  world ;  but  the  sad¬ 
ness  is  not  unpleasant,  and  one  is  quite  willing  to  for¬ 
give. 


89 


Yes, — it  was  a  long,  long  time  ago.  It  must  have 
been  a  great  number  of  centuries.  Matocton  was 
decked  in  its  spring  fripperies  of  burgeoning,  and  the 
sky  was  a  great,  pale  turquoise,  and  the  buttercups 
left  a  golden  dust  high  up  on  one’s  trousers.  One 
had  not  become  entirely  accustomed  to  long  trousers 
then,  and  one  was  rather  proud  of  them.  One  was 
lying  on  one’s  back  in  the  woods,  where  the  birds 
were  astir  and  eager  to  begin  their  house-building, 
and  twittered  hysterically  over  the  potentialities  of 
straws  and  broken  twigs. 

Overhead,  the  swelling  buds  of  trees  were  visi¬ 
ble  against  the  sky,  and  the  branches  were  like  gro¬ 
tesque  designs  on  a  Japanese  plate.  There  was  a 
little  clump  of  moss,  very  cool  and  soft,  that  just 
brushed  one’s  cheek. 

One  was  thinking — really  thinking — for  the  first 
time  in  one’s  life;  and,  curiously  enough,  one  was 
thinking  about  a  girl,  although  girls  were  manifestly 
of  no  earthly  importance. 

But  Anne  Willoughby  was  different.  Even  at  the 
age  when  girls  seemed  feckless  creatures,  whose  aim- 
ings  were  inexplicable,  both  as  concerned  existence 
in  general,  and,  more  concretely,  as  touched  gravel- 
shooters  and  snowballs,  and  whose  reasons  for  burst¬ 
ing  into  tears  were  recondite,  one  had  perceived  the 
difference.  One  wondered  about  it  from  time  to 
time. 

Gradually,  there  awoke  an  uneasy  self-conscious 
interest  as  to  all  matters  that  concerned  her,  a  mental 
90 


T  E  R  T  I  U  S 


pricking  up  of  the  ears  when  her  name  was  men¬ 
tioned. 

One  lay  awake  o’  nights,  wondering  why  her  hair 
curled  so  curiously  about  her  temples,  and  held  such 
queer  glowing  tints  in  its  depths  when  sunlight  fell 
upon  it.  One  was  uncomfortable  and  embarrassed 
and  Briarean-handed  in  her  presence,  but  with  her 
absence  came  the  overwhelming  desire  of  seeing  her 
again. 

After  a  little,  it  was  quite  understood  that  one 
was  in  love  with  Anne  Willoughby.  .  .  . 

It  was  a  matter  of  minor  importance  that  her  father 
was  the  wealthiest  man  in  Fairhaven,  and  that  one's 
mother  was  poor.  One  would  go  away  into  foreign 
lands  after  a  while,  and  come  back  with  a  great  deal 
of  money, — laks  of  rupees  and  pieces  of  eight,  prob¬ 
ably.  It  was  very  simple. 

But  Anne's  father  had  taken  an  unreasonable  view 
of  the  matter,  and  carried  Anne  off  to  a  terrible  aunt, 
who  returned  one's  letters  unopened.  That  was  the 
end  of  Anne  Willoughby. 

Then,  after  an  interval — during  which  one  fell  in 
and  out  of  love  assiduously,  and  had  upon  the  whole 
a  pleasant  time, — Anne  Charteris  had  come  to  Lich¬ 
field.  One  had  found  that  time  had  merely  added 
poise  and  self-possession  and  a  certain  opulence  to 
the  beauty  which  had  caused  one's  voice  to  play  fan¬ 
tastic  tricks  in  conference  with  Anne  Willoughby, — * 
ancient,  unforgotten  conferences,  wherein  one  had 
pointed  out  the  many  respects  in  which  she  differed 

91 


from  all  other  women,  and  the  perfect  feasibility 
of  marrying  on  nothing  a  year. 

Much  as  one  loved  Patricia,  and  great  as  was  one’s 
happiness,  men  did  not  love  as  boys  did,  after  all.  .  .  . 

“  ‘Ah,  Boy,  it  is  a  dream  for  life  too  high/  ”  said 
Colonel  Musgrave,  in  his  soul.  “And  now  let’s  think 
of  something  sensible.  Let’s  think  about  the  present 
political  crisis,  and  what  to  give  the  groomsmen,  and 
how  much  six  times  seven  is.  Meanwhile,  you  are 
not  the  fellow  in  Aux  Italiens,  you  know;  you  are 
not  bothered  by  the  faint,  sweet  smell  of  any  foolish 
jasmine-flower,  you  understand,  or  by  any  equally 
foolish  hankerings  after  your  lost  youth.  You  are 
simply  a  commonplace,  every-day  sort  of  man,  not 
thoroughly  hardened  as  yet  to  being  engaged,  and  you 
are  feeling  a  bit  pulled  down  to-night,  because  your 
liver  or  something  is  out  of  sorts.” 

Upon  reflection,  Colonel  Musgrave  was  quite  sure 
that  he  was  happy;  and  that  it  was  only  his  liver  or 
something  which  was  upset.  But,  at  all  events,  the 
colonel’s  besetting  infirmity  was  always  to  shrink  from 
making  changes;  instinctively  he  balked  against  com¬ 
mission  of  any  action  which  would  alter  his  relations 
with  accustomed  circumstances  or  persons.  It  was 
very  like  Rudolph  Musgrave  that  even  now,  for  all 
the  glow  of  the  future’s  bright  allure,  his  heart  should 
hark  back  to  the  past  and  its  absurd  dear  memories, 
with  wistfulness. 

And  he  found  it,  as  many  others  have  done,  but 
cheerless  sexton’s  work,  this  digging  up  of  boyish 
92 


TERTIUS 


recollections.  One  by  one,  they  come  to  light — the 
brave  hopes  and  dreams  and  aspirations  of  youth;  the 
ruddy  life  has  gone  out  of  them;  they  have  shriveled 
into  an  alien,  pathetic  dignity.  They  might  have  been 
one’s  great-grandfather’s  or  Hannibal’s  or  Adam’s; 
the  boy  whose  life  was  swayed  by  them  is  quite  as 
dead  as  these. 

Amaryllis  is  dead,  too.  Perhaps,  you  drop  in  of 
an  afternoon  to  talk  over  old  happenings.  She  is 
perfectly  affable.  She  thinks  it  is  time  you  were 
married.  She  thinks  it  very  becoming,  the  way  you 
have  stoutened.  And,  no,  they  weren’t  at  the  Robin¬ 
sons’;  that  was  the  night  little  Amaryllis  was  threat¬ 
ened  with  croup. 

Then,  after  a  little,  the  lamps  of  welcome  are  lighted 
in  her  eyes,  her  breath  quickens,  her  cheeks  mount 
crimson  flags  in  honor  of  her  lord,  her  hero,  her  con¬ 
queror. 

It  is  Mr.  Grundy,  who  is  happy  to  meet  you,  and 
hopes  you  will  stay  to  dinner.  He  patronizes  you 
a  trifle;  his  wife,  you  see,  has  told  him  all  about 
that  boy  who  is  as  dead  as  Hannibal.  You  don’t 
mind  in  the  least;  you  dine  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Grundy,  and  pass  a  very  pleasant  evening. 

Colonel  Musgrave  had  dined  often  with  the  Char- 
terises. 

*• 


93 


Ill 


AND  then  some  frolic  god,  en  route  from  homi¬ 
cide  by  means  of  an  unloaded  pistol  in  Chi¬ 
cago  for  the  demolishment  of  a  likely  ship 
off  Palos,  with  the  cooperancy  of  a  defective  piston- 
rod,  stayed  in  his  flight  to  bring  Joe  Parkinson  to 
Lichfield. 

It  was  Roger  Stapylton  who  told  the  colonel  of 
this  advent,  as  the  very  apex  of  jocularity. 

“For  you  remember  the  Parkinsons,  I  suppose  ?” 
“The  ones  that  had  a  cabin  near  Matocton?  Very 
deserving  people,  I  believe.” 

“And  their  son,  sir,  wants  to  marry  my  daugh¬ 
ter/’  said  Mr.  Stapylton, — “my  daughter,  who  is 
shortly  to  be  connected  by  marriage  with  the  Mus- 
graves  of  Matocton!  I  don’t  know  what  this  world 
will  come  to  next.” 

It  was  a  treat  to  see  him  shake  his  head  in  depre-* 
cation  of  such  anarchy. 

Then  Roger  Stapylton  said,  more  truculently:  “Yes,: 
sir!  on  account  of  a  boy-and-girl  affair  five  years  ago, 
this  half-strainer,  this  poor- white  trash,  has  actually 

94 


T  E  R  T  I  U  S 


had  the  presumption,  sir, — but  I  don’t  doubt  that  Pat 
has  told  you  all  about  it?” 

“Why,  no,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave.  “She  did  not 
mention  it  this  afternoon.  She  was  not  feeling  very 
well.  A  slight  headache.  I  noticed  she  was  not  in¬ 
clined  to  conversation.” 

It  had  just  occurred  to  him,  as  mildly  remarkable, 
that  Patricia  had  never  at  any  time  alluded  to  any 
one  of  those  countless  men  who  must  have  inevitably 
made  love  to  her. 

“Though,  mind  you,  I  don’t  say  anything  against 
Joe.  He’s  a  fine  young  fellow.  Paid  his  own  way 
through  college.  Done  good  work  in  Panama  and 
in  Alaska  too.  But — confound  it,  sir,  the  boy’s  ai 
fool!  Now  I  put  it  to  you  fairly,  ain’t  he  a  fool?” 
said  Mr.  Stapylton. 

“Upon  my  word,  sir,  if  his  folly  has  no  other  proof 
than  an  adoration  of  your  daughter,”  the  colonel 
protested,  “I  must  in  self-defense  beg  leave  to  differ 
with  you.” 

Yes,  that  was  it  undoubtedly.  Patricia  had  too 
high  a  sense  of  honor  to  exhibit  these  defeated  rivals 
in  a  ridiculous  light,  even  to  him.  It  was  a  revela¬ 
tion  of  an  additional  and  as  yet  unsuspected  ador- 
ability. 

Then  after  a  little  further  talk  they  separated. 
Colonel  Musgrave  left  that  night  for  Matocton  in  or¬ 
der  to  inspect  the  improvements  which  were  being 
made  there.  He  was  to  return  to  Lichfield  on  the 
ensuing  Wednesday,  when  his  engagement  to  Patricia 

95 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


was  to  be  announced — “just  as  your  honored  grand¬ 
father  did  your  Aunt  Constantia’s  betrothal.” 

Meanwhile  Joe  Parkinson,  a  young  man  much 
enamored,  who  fought  the  world  by  ordinary  like  Hal 
o’  the  Wynd,  “for  his  own  hand,”  was  seeing  Pa¬ 
tricia  every  day. 


9  6 


IV 


COLONEL  MUSGRAVE  remained  five  days  at 
Matocton,  that  he  might  put  his  house  in 
order  against  his  nearing  marriage.  It  was  a 
pleasant  sight  to  see  the  colonel  stroll  about  the  pan¬ 
eled  corridors  and  pause  to  chat  with  divers  defer¬ 
ential  workmen  who  were  putting  the  last  touches 
there,  or  to  observe  him  mid-course  in  affable  con¬ 
sultation  with  gardeners  anent  the  rolling  of  a  lawn 
or  the  retrimming  of  a  rosebush,  and  to  mark  the 
bearing  of  the  man  so  optimistically  colored  by  good¬ 
will  toward  the  solar  system. 

He  joyed  in  his  old  home, — in  the  hipped  roof  of 
it,  the  mullioned  casements,  the  wide  window-seats, 
the  high  and  spacious  rooms,  the  geometrical  gardens 
and  broad  lawns,  in  all  that  was  quaint  and  beautiful 
at  Matocton, — because  it  would  be  Patricia’s  so  very 
soon,  the  lovely  frame  of  a  yet  lovelier  picture,  as 
the  colonel  phrased  it  with  a  flight  of  imagery. 

Gravely  he  inspected  all  the  portraits  of  his  femi¬ 
nine  ancestors  that  he  might  decide,  as  one  without 
bias,  whether  Matocton  had  ever  boasted  a  more  de- 

9  7 


lectable  mistress.  Equity — or  in  his  fond  eyes  at  least, 
— demanded  a  negative.  Only  in  one  of  these  can¬ 
vases,  a  counterfeit  of  Miss  Evelyn  Ramsay,  born 
a  Ramsay  of  Blenheim,  that  had  married  the  common 
great-great-grandfather  of  both  the  colonel  and  Pa¬ 
tricia — Major  Orlando  Musgrave,  an  aide-de-camp  to 
General  Charles  Lee  in  the  Revolution, — Rudolph 
Musgrave  found,  or  seemed  to  find,  dear  likenesses 
to  that  demented  seraph  who  was  about  to  stoop  to  his 
unworthiness. 

He  spent  much  time  before  this  portrait.  Yes,  yes ! 
this  woman  had  been  lovely  in  her  day.  And  this 
bright,  roguish  shadow  of  her  was  lovely,  too,  eternally 
postured  in  white  patnet,  trimmed  with  a  vine  of  rose- 
colored  satin  leaves,  a  pink  rose  in  her  powdered  hair 
and  a  huge  ostrich  plume  as  well. 

Yet  it  was  an  adamantean  colonel  that  remarked : 

“My  dear,  perhaps  it  is  just  as  fortunate  as  not  that 
you  have  quitted  Matocton.  For  I  have  heard  tales  of 
you,  Miss  Ramsay.  Oh,  no  1 1  honestly  do  not  believe 
that  you  would  have  taken  kindlily  to  any  young  per¬ 
son — not  even  in  the  guise  of  a  great-great-grand- 
daughter, — to  whom  you  cannot  hold  a  candle, 
madam.  A  fico  for  you,  madam,”  said  the  most  un- 
dutiful  of  great-great-grandsons. 

Let  us  leave  him  to  his  roseate  meditations.  Ques¬ 
tionless,  in  the  woman  he  loved  there  was  much  of  his 
own  invention:  but  the  circumstance  is  not  unhack¬ 
neyed;  and  Colonel  Musgrave  was  in  a  decorous 
fashion  the  happiest  of  living  persons. 

98 


T  E  R  T  I  U  S 


Meanwhile  Joe  Parkinson,  a  young  man  much  en¬ 
amored,  who  fought  the  world  by  ordinary,  like  Hal 
o’  the  Wynd  “for  his  own  hand,”  was  seeing  Pa¬ 
tricia  every  day. 


99 


1 


V 


JOE  PARKINSON — tall  and  broad-shouldered, 
tanned,  resolute,  chary  of  speech,  decisive  in 
gesture,  having  close-cropped  yellow  hair  and 
frank,  keen  eyes  like  amethysts, — was  the  one  alien 
present  when  Colonel  Musgrave  came  again  into 
Roger  Stapylton’s  fine  and  choicely-furnished  man¬ 
sion. 

This  was  on  the  evening  Roger  Stapylton  gave  the 
long-anticipated  dinner  at  which  he  was  to  announce 
his  daughter’s  engagement.  As  much  indeed  was  sus¬ 
pected  by  most  of  his  dinner-company,  so  carefully 
selected  from  the  aristocracy  of  Lichfield;  and  the 
heart  of  the  former  overseer,  as  these  handsome, 
courtly  and  sweet-voiced  people  settled  according  to 
their  rank  about  his  sumptuous  table,  was  aglow  with 
pride. 

Then  Rudolph  Musgrave  turned  to  his  companion 
and  said  softly:  “My  dear,  you  are  like  a  wraith. 
What  is  it?” 

“I  have  a  headache,”  said  Patricia.  “It  is  nothing.” 
“You  reassure  me,”  the  colonel  gaily  declared,  “for 
I  had  feared  it  was  a  heartache - ” 


ioo 


T  E  R  T  I  U  S 


She  faced  him.  Desperation  looked  out  of  her  pur¬ 
ple  eyes.  “It  is,”  the  girl  said  swiftly. 

“Ah - ?”  Only  it  was  an  intake  of  the  breath, 

rather  than  an  interjection.  Colonel  Musgrave  ate 
his  fish  with  deliberation.  “Young  Parkinson?”  he 
presently  suggested. 

“I  thought  I  had  forgotten  him.  I  didn’t  know  I 

cared — I  didn’t  know  I  could  care  so  much - ”  And 

there  was  a  note  in  her  voice  which  thrust  the  poor 
colonel  into  an  abyss  of  consternation. 

“Remember  that  these  people  are  your  guests,”  he 
said,  in  perfect  earnest. 

“ - and  I  refused  him  this  afternoon  for  the  last 

time,  and  he  is  going  away  to-morrow - ” 

But  here  Judge  Allardyce  broke  in,  to  tell  Miss 
Stapylton  of  the  pleasure  with  which  he  had  nolle 
prosequied  the  case  against  Tom  Bellingham. 

“A  son  of  my  old  schoolmate,  ma’am,”  the  judge 
explained.  “A  Bellingham  of  Assequin.  Oh,  indis¬ 
creet  of  course — but,  God  bless  my  soul!  when  were 
the  Bellinghams  anything  else?  The  boy  regretted 
it  as  much  as  anybody.” 

And  she  listened  with  almost  morbid  curiosity  con¬ 
cerning  the  finer  details  of  legal  intricacy. 

Colonel  Musgrave  was  midcourse  in  an  anecdote 
which  the  lady  upon  the  other  side  of  him  found 
wickedly  amusing. 

He  was  very  gay.  He  had  presently  secured  the 
attention  of  the  company  at  large,  and  held  it  through 
a  good  half-hour;  for  by  common  consent  Rudolph 

IOI 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


Musgrave  was  at  his  best  to-night,  and  Lichfield  found 
his  best  worth  listening  to. 

“Grinning  old  popinjay!”  thought  Mr.  Parkinson; 
and  envied  him  and  internally  noted,  and  with  an  un¬ 
holy  fervor  cursed,  the  adroitness  of  intonation  and 
the  discreetly  modulated  gesture  with  which  the  colo¬ 
nel  gave  to  every  point  of  his  merry- Andrewing  its 
precise  value. 

The  colonel’s  mind  was  working  busily  on  matters 
oddly  apart  from  those  of  which  he  talked.  He 
wanted  this  girl  next  to  him — at  whom  he  did  not 
look.  He  loved  her  as  that  whippersnapper  yonder 
was  not  capable  of  loving  anyone.  Young  people 
had  these  fancies ;  and  they  outlived  them,  as  the  colo¬ 
nel  knew  of  his  own  experience.  Let  matters  take 
their  course  unhindered,  at  all  events  by  him.  For 
it  was  less  his  part  than  that  of  any  other  man  alive 
to  interfere  when  Rudolph  Musgrave  stood  within 
a  finger’s  reach  of,  at  worst,  his  own  prosperity  and 
happiness. 

He  would  convey  no  note  to  Roger  Stapylton.  Let 
the  banker  announce  the  engagement.  Let  the  young 
fellow  go  to  the  devil.  Colonel  Musgrave  would 
marry  the  girl  and  make  Patricia,  at  worst,  content. 
To  do  otherwise,  even  to  hesitate,  would  be  the  empti¬ 
est  quixotism.  .  .  . 

Then  came  the  fatal  thought,  “But  what  a  gesture !” 
To  fling  away  his  happiness — yes,  even  his  worldly 
fortune, — and  to  do  it  smilingly!  Patricia  must,  per¬ 
force,  admire  him  all  her  life. 


102 


T  E  R  T  I  U  S 


Then  as  old  Stapylton  stirred  in  his  chair  and  broke 
into  a  wide  premonitory  smile,  Colonel  Musgrave  rose 
to  his  feet.  And  of  that  company  Clarice  Pendomer 
at  least  thought  of  how  like  he  was  to  the  boy  who 
had  fought  the  famous  duel  with  George  Pendomer 
some  fifteen  years  ago. 

Ensued  a  felicitous  speech.  Rudolph  Musgrave  was 
familiar  with  his  audience.  And  therefore : 

Colonel  Musgrave  alluded  briefly  to  the  pleasure  he 
took  in  addressing  such  a  gathering.  He  believed  no 
other  State  in  the  Union  could  have  afforded  an  as¬ 
sembly  of  more  distinguished  men  and  fairer  women. 
But  the  fact  was  not  unnatural ;  they  might  recall  the 
venerable  saying  that  blood  will  tell?  Well,  it  was 
their  peculiar  privilege  to  represent  to-day  that  sturdy 
stock  which,  when  this  great  republic  was  in  the  pangs 
of  birth,  had  with  sword  and  pen  and  oratory  discom¬ 
fited  the  hirelings  of  England  and  given  to  history 
the  undying  names  of  several  Revolutionary  patriots, 
— all  of  whom  he  enumerated  with  the  customary 
pause  after  each  cognomen  to  allow  for  the  customary 
applause. 

And  theirs,  too,  was  the  blood  of  those  heroic  men 
who  fought  more  recently  beneath  the  stars  and  bars, 
as  bravely,  he  would  make  bold  to  say,  as  Leonidas 
at  Thermopylae,  in  defense  of  their  loved  Southland. 
Right,  he  conceded,  had  not  triumphed  here.  For 
hordes  of  brutal  soldiery  had  invaded  the  fertile  soil, 
the  tempest  of  war  had  swept  the  land  and  left  it  deso¬ 
late.  The  South  lay  battered  and  bruised,  and  pros- 

103 


trate  in  blood,  the  “Niobe  of  nations,”  as  sad  a  vic¬ 
tim  of  ingratitude  as  King  Lear. 

The  colonel  touched  upon  the  time  when  buzzards, 
in  the  guise  of  carpet-baggers,  had  battened  upon  the 
recumbent  form;  and  spoke  slightingly  of  divers  per¬ 
sons  of  antiquity  as  compared  with  various  Confed¬ 
erate  leaders,  whose  names  were  greeted  with  approv¬ 
ing  nods  and  ripples  of  polite  enthusiasm. 

But  the  South,  and  in  particular  the  grand  old 
Commonwealth  which  they  inhabited,  he  stated,  had 
not  long  sat  among  the  ruins  of  her  temples,  like  a 
sorrowing  priestess  with  veiled  eyes  and  a  depressed 
soul,  mourning  for  that  which  had  been.  Like  the 
fabled  Phoenix,  she  had  risen  from  the  ashes  of  her 
past.  To-day  she  was  once  more  to  be  seen  in  her 
hereditary  position,  the  brightest  gem  in  all  that  glo¬ 
rious  galaxy  of  States  which  made  America  the  envy 
of  every  other  nation.  Her  battle-fields  converted 
into  building-lots,  tall  factories  smoked  where  once 
a  holocaust  had  flamed,  and  where  cannon  had  roared 
you  heard  to-day  the  tinkle  of  the  school-bell.  Such 
progress  was  without  a  parallel. 

Nor  was  there  any  need  for  him,  he  was  assured, 
to  mention  the  imperishable  names  of  their  dear  home¬ 
land’s  poets  and  statesmen  of  to-day,  the  orators  and 
philanthropists  and  prominent  business-men  who  jos¬ 
tled  one  another  in  her  splendid,  new  asphalted  streets, 
since  all  were  quite  familiar  to  his  audience, — as  fa¬ 
miliar,  he  would  venture  to  predict,  as  they  would 
eventually  be  to  the  most  cherished  recollections  of 
104 


TERTIUS 


Macaulay’s  prophesied  New  Zealander,  when  this  no¬ 
torious  antipodean  should  pay  his  long-expected  visit 
to  the  ruins  of  St.  Paul’s. 

In  fine,  by  a  natural  series  of  transitions,  Colonel 
Musgrave  thus  worked  around  to  “the  very  pleasing 
duty  with  which  our  host,  in  view  of  the  long  and  in¬ 
timate  connection  between  our  families,  has  seen  fit 
to  honor  me” — which  was,  it  developed,  to  announce 
the  imminent  marriage  of  Miss  Patricia  Stapylton  and 
Mr.  Joseph  Parkinson. 

It  may  conservatively  be  stated  that  everyone  was 
surprised. 

Old  Stapylton  had  half  risen,  with  a  purple  face. 

The  colonel  viewed  him  with  a  look  of  bland  inter¬ 
rogation. 

There  was  silence  for  a  heart-beat. 

Then  Stapylton  lowered  his  eyes,  if  just  because 
the  laws  of  caste  had  triumphed,  and  in  consequence 
his  glance  crossed  that  of  his  daughter,  who  sat  mo¬ 
tionless  regarding  him.  She  was  an  unusually  pretty 
girl,  he  thought,  and  he  had  always  been  inordinately 
proud  of  her.  It  was  not  pride  she  seemed  to  beg  him 
muster  now.  Patricia  through  that  moment  was  not 
the  fine  daughter  the  old  man  was  sometimes  half 
afraid  of.  She  was,  too,  like  a  certain  defiant  per¬ 
son — oh,  of  an  incredible  beauty,  such  as  women  had 
not  any  longer ! — who  had  hastily  put  aside  her  bonnet 
and  had  looked  at  a  young  Roger  Stapylton  in  much 
this  fashion  very  long  ago,  because  the  minister  was 
coming  downstairs,  and  they  would  presently  be  man 

105 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER'S  NECK 


and  wife, — provided  always  her  pursuing  brothers  did 
not  arrive  in  time.  .  .  . 

Old  Roger  Stapylton  cleared  his  throat. 

Old  Roger  Stapylton  said,  half  sheepishly:  “My 
foot’s  asleep,  that’s  all.  I  beg  everybody’s  pardon, 
I’m  sure.  Please  go  on” — he  had  come  within  an  ace 
of  saying  “Mr.  Rudolph,”  and  only  in  the  nick  of  time 
did  he  continue,  “Colonel  Musgrave.” 

So  the  colonel  continued  in  time-hallowed  form, 
with  happy  allusions  to  Mr.  Parkinson’s  anterior  suc¬ 
cess  as  an  engineer  before  he  came  “like  a  young 
Lochinvar  to  wrest  away  his  beautiful  and  popular 
fiancee  from  us  faint-hearted  fellows  of  Lichfield” ; 
touched  of  course  upon  the  colonel’s  personal  com- 
minglement  of  envy  and  rage,  and  so  on,  as  an  old 
bachelor  who  saw  too  late  what  he  had  missed  in  life ; 
and  concluded  by  proposing  the  health  of  the  young 
couple. 

This  was  drunk  with  all  the  honors. 


106 


VI 


UPON  what  Patricia  said  to  the  colonel  in  the 
drawing-room,  what  Joe  Parkinson  blurted 
out  in  the  hall,  and  chief  of  all,  what  Roger 
Stapylton  asseverated  to  Rudolph  Musgrave  in  the 
library,  after  the  other  guests  had  gone,  it  is  unneces¬ 
sary  to  dwell  in  this  place.  To  each  of  these  in  various 
fashions  did  Colonel  Musgrave  explain  such  reasons 
as,  he  variously  explained,  must  seem  to  any  gentleman 
sufficient  cause  for  acting  as  he  had  done;  but  most 
candidly,  and  even  with  a  touch  of  eloquence,  to  Roger 
Stapylton. 

“You  are  like  your  grandfather,  sir,  at  times,”  the 
latter  said,  inconsequently  enough,  when  the  colonel 
had  finished. 

And  Rudolph  Musgrave  gave  a  little  bowing  ges¬ 
ture,  with  an  entire  gravity.  He  knew  it  was  the 
highest  tribute  that  Stapylton  could  pay  to  any  man. 

“She’s  a  daughter  any  father  might  be  proud  of,” 
said  the  banker,  also.  He  removed  his  cigar  from  his 
mouth  and  looked  at  it  critically.  “She’s  rather  like 
her  mother  sometimes,”  he  said  carelessly.  “Her 

107 


mother  made  a  runaway  match,  you  may  remember — 
Damn’  poor  cigar,  this.  But  no,  you  wouldn’t,  I 
reckon.  I  had  branched  out  into  cotton  then  and  had 

a  little  place  just  outside  of  Chiswick - ” 

So  that,  all  in  all,  Colonel  Musgrave  returned  home¬ 
ward  not  entirely  dissatisfied. 


VII 


THE  colonel  sat  for  a  long  while  before  his  fire 
that  night.  The  room  seemed  less  comforta¬ 
ble  than  he  had  ever  known  it.  So  many  of 
his  books  and  pictures  and  other  furnishings  had  been 
already  carried  to  Matocton  that  the  walls  were  a  little 
bare.  Also  there  was  a  formidable  pile  of  bills  upon 
the  table  by  him, — from  contractors  and  upholsterers 
and  furniture-houses,  and  so  on,  who  had  been  con¬ 
cerned  in  the  late  renovation  of  Matocton, — the 
heralds  of  a  host  he  hardly  saw  his  way  to  dealing 
with. 

He  had  flung  away  a  deal  of  money  that  evening, 
with  something  which  to  him  was  dearer.  Had  you 
attempted  to  condole  with  him  he  would  not  have 
understood  you. 

“But  what  would  you  have  had  a  gentleman  do, 
sir?”  Colonel  Musgrave  would  have  said,  in  real  per¬ 
plexity. 

Besides,  it  was,  in  fact,  not  sorrow  that  he  felt, 
rather  it  was  contentment,  when  he  remembered  the 
girl’s  present  happiness;  and  what  alone  depressed 

109 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


the  colonel’s  courtly  affability  toward  the  universe  at 
large  was  the  queer,  horrible  new  sense  of  being  some¬ 
how  out  of  touch  with  yesterday’s  so  comfortable 
world,  of  being  outmoded,  of  being  almost  old. 

“Eh,  well!”  he  said;  “I  am  of  a  certain  age  un¬ 
doubtedly.” 

By  an  odd  turn  the  colonel  thought  of  how  his 
friends  of  his  own  class  and  generation  had  hon¬ 
estly  admired  the  after-dinner  speech  which  he  had 
made  that  evening.  And  he  smiled,  but  very  tenderly, 
because  they  were  all  men  and  women  whom  he 
loved. 

“The  most  of  us  have  known  each  other  for  a  long 
while.  The  most  of  us,  in  fact,  are  of  a  certain  age. 
•  .  .  I  think  no  people  ever  met  the  sorry  problem 
that  we  faced.  For  we  were  born  the  masters  of  a 
leisured,  ordered  world;  and  by  a  tragic  quirk  of 
destiny  were  thrust  into  a  quite  new  planet,  where  we 
were  for  a  while  the  inferiors,  and  after  that  just 
the  competitors  of  yesterday’s  slaves. 

“We  couldn’t  meet  the  new  conditions.  Oh,  for  the 
love  of  heaven,  let  us  be  frank,  and  confess  that  we 
have  not  met  them  as  things  practical  go.  We  hadn’t 
the  training  for  it.  A  man  who  has  not  been  taught 
to  swim  may  rationally  be  excused  for  preferring  to 
sit  upon  the  bank;  and  should  he  elect  to  ornament 
his  idleness  with  protestations  that  he  is  self-evidently 
an  excellent  swimmer,  because  once  upon  a  time  his 
progenitors  were  the  only  people  in  the  world  who 
had  the  slightest  conception  of  how  to  perform  a  nata- 
no 


T  E  R  T  I  U  S 


torial  masterpiece,  the  thing  is  simply  human  nature. 
Talking  chokes  nobody,  worse  luck. 

“And  yet  we  haven’t  done  so  badly.  For  the  most 
part  we  have  sat  upon  the  bank  our  whole  lives  long. 
We  have  produced  nothing — after  all — which  was  ab¬ 
solutely  earth-staggering ;  and  we  have  talked  a  deal 
of  claptrap.  But  meanwhile  we  have  at  least  enhanced 
the  comeliness  of  our  particular  sand-bar.  We  have 
lived  a  courteous  and  tranquil  and  independent  life 
thereon,  just  as  our  fathers  taught  us.  It  may  be — 
in  the  final  outcome  of  things — that  will  be  found  an 
even  finer  pursuit  than  the  old  one  of  producing  Presi¬ 
dents. 

“Besides,  we  have  produced  ourselves.  We  have 
been  gentlefolk  in  spite  of  all,  we  have  been  true  even 
in  our  iniquities  to  the  traditions  of  our  race.  No, 
I  cannot  assert  that  these  traditions  always  square 
with  ethics  or  even  with  the  Decalogue,  for  we  have 
added  a  very  complex  Eleventh  Commandment  con¬ 
cerning  honor.  And  for  the  rest,  we  have  defiantly 
embroidered  life,  and  indomitably  we  have  converted 
the  commonest  happening  of  life  into  a  comely  thing. 
We  have  been  artists  if  not  artizans.” 

There  was  upon  the  table  a  large  photograph  in 
sepia  of  Patricia  Stapylton.  He  studied  this  now. 
She  was  very  beautiful,  he  thought. 

“  ‘Nor  thou  detain  her  vesture’s  hem’ - ”  said  the 

colonel  aloud.  “Oh,  that  infernal  Yankee  understood, 
even  though  he  was  born  in  Boston!”  And  this  as 
coming  from  a  Musgrave  of  Matocton,  may  fairly  be 

hi 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


considered  as  a  sweeping  tribute  to  the  author  of  Give 
All  to  Love . 

Colonel  Musgrave  was  intent  upon  the  portrait. 
.  .  .  So!  she  had  chosen  at  last  between  himself  and 
this  young  fellow,  a  workman  born  of  workmen,  who 
went  about  the  world  building  bridges  and  canals  and 
tunnels  and  such,  in  those  far  countries  which  were  to 
Colonel  Musgrave  just  so  many  gray  or  pink  or  fawn- 
colored  splotches  on  the  map.  It  seemed  to  Colonel 
Musgrave  almost  an  allegory. 

So  Colonel  Musgrave  filled  a  glass  with  the  famed 
Lafayette  madeira  of  Matocton,  and  solemnly  drank 
yet  another  toast.  He  loved  to  do,  as  you  already 
know,  that  which  was  colorful. 

“To  this  new  South,”  he  said.  “To  this  new  South 
that  has  not  any  longer  need  of  me  or  of  my  kind. 

“To  this  new  South!  She  does  not  gaze  unwill¬ 
ingly,  nor  too  complacently,  upon  old  years,  and  dares 
concede  that  but  with  loss  of  manliness  may  any  man 
encroach  upon  the  heritage  of  a  dog  or  of  a  trotting- 
horse,  and  consider  the  exploits  of  an  ancestor  to 
guarantee  an  innate  and  personal  excellence. 

“For  to  her  all  former  glory  is  less  a  jewel  than 
a  touchstone,  and  with  her  portion  of  it  daily  she 
appraises  her  own  doing,  and  without  vain  speech. 
And  her  high  past  she  values  now,  in  chief,  as  fit 
foundation  of  that  edifice  whereon  she  labors  day  by 

day,  and  with  augmenting  strokes.” 

*  *  * 

And  yet — “It  may  be  he  will  serve  you  better.  But, 
1 12 


T  E  R  T  I  U  S 


oh,  it  isn’t  possible  that  he  should  love  you  more 
than  I,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave  of  Matocton. 

The  man  was  destined  to  remember  that  utterance 
— and,  with  the  recollection,  to  laugh  not  altogether 
in  either  scorn  or  merriment. 


PART  FOUR 


APPRECIATION 


“You  have  chosen;  and  I  cry  content  thereto, 
And  cry  your  pardon  also,  and  am  reproved 
In  that  I  took  you  for  a  woman  I  loved 
Odd  centuries  ago,  and  would  undo 
That  curious  error.  Nay,  your  eyes  are  blue, 
Your  speech  is  gracious,  but  you  are  not  she, 

And  I  am  older — and  changed  how  utterly! — 

I  am  no  longer  I,  you  are  not  you. 

“Time,  destined  as  we  thought  but  to  befriend 
And  guerdon  love  like  ours,  finds  you  beset 
With  joys  and  griefs  I  neither  share  nor  mend 
Who  am  a  stranger;  and  we  two  are  met 
Nor  wholly  glad  nor  sorry;  and  the  end 
Of  too  much  laughter  is  a  faint  regret.” 

R.  E.  Townsend.  Sonnets  for  Elena . 


I 


NEXT  morning  Rudolph  Musgrave  found  the 
world  no  longer  an  impassioned  place,  but 
simply  a  familiar  habitation, — no  longer  the 
wrestling-ground  of  big  emotions,  indeed,  but  un¬ 
doubtedly  a  spot,  whatever  were  its  other  pretensions 
to  praise,  wherein  one  was  at  home.  He  breakfasted 
on  ham  and  eggs,  in  a  state  of  tolerable  equanimity; 
and  mildly  wondered  at  himself  for  doing  it. 

The  colonel  was  deep  in  a  heraldic  design  and  was 
whistling  through  his  teeth  when  Patricia  came  into 
the  Library.  He  looked  up,  with  the  outlines  of  a 
frown  vanishing  like  pencilings  under  the  india-rub¬ 
ber  of  professional  courtesy, — for  he  was  denoting  or 
at  the  moment,  which  is  fussy  work,  as  it  consists  ex¬ 
clusively  of  dots. 

Then  his  chair  scraped  audibly  upon  the  floor  as 
he  pushed  it  from  him.  It  occurred  to  Rudolph  Mus¬ 
grave  after  an  interval  that  he  was  still  half-way  be¬ 
tween  sitting  and  standing,  and  that  his  mouth  was 
open.  .  .  . 

He  could  hear  a  huckster  outside  on  Regis  Avenue. 

ii  7 


The  colonel  never  forgot  the  man  was  crying  “Fresh 
oranges !” 

“He  kissed  me,  Olaf.  Yes,  I  let  him  kiss  me,  even 
after  he  had  asked  me  if  he  could.  No  sensible  girl 
would  ever  do  that,  of  course.  And  then  I  knew - ’* 

Patricia  was  horribly  frightened. 

“And  afterwards  the  jackass-fool  made  matters 
worse  by  calling  me  ‘his  darling.*  There  is  no  more 
hateful  word  in  the  English  language  than  ‘darling.* 
It  sounds  like  castor  oil  tastes,  or  a  snail  looks  after 
you  have  put  salt  on  him.*’ 

The  colonel  deliberated  this  information;  and  he 
appeared  to  understand. 

“So  Parkinson  has  gone  the  way  of  Pevensey, — * 
and  of  I  wonder  how  many  others?  Well,  may  Heaven 
be  very  gracious  to  us  both!**  he  said.  “For  I  am 
going  to  do  it.** 

Then  composedly  he  took  up  the  telephone  upon  his 
desk  and  called  Roger  Stapylton. 

“I  want  you  to  come  at  once  to  Dr.  Rabbet’s, — « 
yes,  the  rectory,  next  door  to  St.  Luke’s.  Patricia 
and  I  are  to  be  married  there  in  half  an  hour.  We 
are  on  our  way  to  the  City  Hall  to  get  the  license  now. 
.  .  .  No,  she  might  change  her  mind  again,  you  see. 
.  .  .  I  have  not  the  least  notion  how  it  happened.  I 
don’t  care.  .  .  .  Then  you  will  have  to  be  rude  to  him 
or  else  not  see  your  only  daughter  married.  .  .  . 
Kindly  permit  me  to  repeat,  sir,  that  I  don’t  care 
about  that  or  anything  else.  And  for  the  rest,  Pa¬ 
tricia  was  twenty-one  last  December.” 

118 


The  colonel  hung  up  the  receiver.  “And  now,”  he 
said,  “we  are  going  to  the  City  Hall.” 

“Are  you?”  said  Patricia,  with  courteous  interest. 
“Well,  my  way  lies  uptown.  I  have  to  stop  in  at 
Greenberg's  and  get  a  mustard  plaster  for  the  par¬ 
rot.” 

He  had  his  hat  by  this.  “It  isn't  cool  enough  for 
me  to  need  an  overcoat,  is  it  ?” 

“I  think  you  must  be  crazy,”  she  said,  sharply. 

“Of  course  I  am.  So  I  am  going  to  marry  you.” 

“Let  me  go - !  Oh,  and  I  had  thought  you  were 

a  gentleman - ” 

“I  fear  that  at  present  I  am  simply  masculine.” 
He  became  aware  that  his  hands,  in  gripping  both  her 
shoulders,  were  hurting  the  girl. 

“Come  now,”  he  continued,  “will  you  go  quietly  or 
will  I  have  to  carry  you?” 

She  said,  “And  you  would,  too - ”  She  spoke  in 

wonder,  for  Patricia  had  glimpsed  an  unguessed  Ru¬ 
dolph  Musgrave. 

His  hands  went  under  her  arm-pits  and  he  lifted 
her  like  a  feather.  He  held  her  thus  at  arm's  length. 

“You — you  adorable  whirligig!”  he  laughed.  “I 
am  a  stronger  animal  than  you.  It  would  be  as  easy 
for  me  to  murder  you  as  it  would  be  for  you  to 
kill  one  of  those  flies  on  the  window-pane.  Do  you 
quite  understand  that  fact,  Patricia?” 

“Oh,  but  you  are  an  idiot - ” 

“In  wanting  you,  my  dear?” 

“Please  put  me  down.” 

119 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


r-  ■  ■"  ■■■  1  ■'■■■■  1  ■  . . .  "  '  ■  '  ■  ■ 

She  thoroughly  enjoyed  her  helplessness.  He  saw 
it,  long  before  he  lowered  her. 

“Why,  not  so  much  in  that,”  said  Miss  Stapylton, 
“because  inasmuch  as  I  am  a  woman  of  superlative 
charm,  of  course  you  can’t  help  yourself.  But  how 
do  you  know  that  Dr.  Rabbet  may  not  be  somewhere 
else,  harrying  a  defenseless  barkeeper,  or  superintend¬ 
ing  the  making  of  dress-shirt  protectors  for  the  Hot¬ 
tentots,  or  doing  something  else  clerical,  when  we  get 
to  the  rectory?” 

After  an  irrelevant  interlude  she  stamped  her  foot. 

“I  don’t  care  what  you  say,  I  won’t  marry  an  athe¬ 
ist.  If  you  had  the  least  respect  for  his  cloth,  Olaf, 

you  would  call  him  up  and  arrange -  Oh,  well! 

whatever  you  want  to  arrange — and  permit  me  to 
powder  my  nose  without  being  bothered,  because  I 
don’t  want  people  to  think  you  are  marrying  a  second 
helping  to  butter,  and  I  never  did  like  that  Baptist 
man  on  the  block  above,  anyhow.  And  besides,”  said 
Patricia,  as  with  the  occurrence  of  a  new  view-point, 
“think  what  a  delicious  scandal  it  will  create !” 


120 


« 


II 


PATRICIA  spoke  the  truth.  By  supper-time 
Lichfield  had  so  industriously  embroidered  the 
Stapylton  dinner  and  the  ensuing  marriage 
with  hypotheses  and  explanations  and  unparented  ru¬ 
mors  that  none  of  the  participants  in  the  affair  but 
could  advantageously  have  exchanged  reputations  with 
Benedict  Arnold  or  Lucretia  Borgia,  had  Lichfield  be¬ 
lieved  a  tithe  of  what  Lichfield  was  repeating. 

A  duel  was  of  course  anticipated  between  Mr. 
Parkinson  and  Colonel  Musgrave,  and  the  colonel  in¬ 
deed  offered,  through  Major  Wadleigh,  any  satisfac¬ 
tion  which  Mr.  Parkinson  might  desire. 

The  engineer,  with  garnishments  of  profanity, 
considered  dueling  to  be  a  painstakingly-described 
absurdity  and  wished  “the  old  popinjay”  joy  of  his 
bargain. 

Lichfield  felt  that  only  showed  what  came  of  treat¬ 
ing  poor-white  trash  as  your  equals,  and  gloried  in  the 
salutary  moral. 


12 1 


Ill 


MEANWHILE  the  two  originators  of  so  much 
Lichfieldian  diversion  were  not  unhappy. 
But  indeed  it  were  irreverent  even  to  try 
to  express  the  happiness  of  their  earlier  married 
life.  .  .  . 

They  were  an  ill-matched  couple  in  so  many  ways 
that  no  long-headed  person  could  conceivably  have 
anticipated — in  the  outcome — more  than  decorous  tol¬ 
erance  of  each  other.  For  apart  from  the  disparity 
in  age  and  tastes  and  rearing,  there  was  always  the 
fact  to  be  weighed  that  in  marrying  the  only  child  of 
a  wealthy  man  Rudolph  Musgrave  was  making  what 
Lichfield  called  “an  eminently  sensible  match” — than 
which,  as  Lichfield  knew,  there  is  no  more  infallible 
recipe  for  discord. 

In  this  case  the  axiom  seemed,  after  the  manner  of 
all  general  rules,  to  bulwark  itself  with  an  exception. 
Colonel  Musgrave  continued  to  emanate  an  air  of  con¬ 
tentment  which  fell  perilously  short  of  fatuity;  and 
that  Patricia  was  honestly  fond  of  him  was  evident 
to  the  most  impecunious  of  Lichfield’s  bachelors. 

True,  curtains  had  been  lifted,  a  little  by  a  little. 
Patricia  could  hardly  have  told  you  at  what  exact 
122 


APPRECIATION 


moment  it  was  that  she  discovered  Miss  Agatha — who 
continued  of  course  to  live  with  them — was  a  dipso¬ 
maniac.  Very  certainly  Rudolph  Musgrave  was  not 
Patricia’s  informant;  it  is  doubtful  if  the  colonel 
ever  conceded  his  sister’s  infirmity  in  his  most  private 
meditations;  so  that  Patricia  found  the  cause  of  Miss 
Agatha’s  “attacks”  to  be  an  open  secret  of  which 
everyone  in  the  house  seemed  aware  and  of  which  by 
tacit  agreement  nobody  ever  spoke.  It  bewildered  Pa¬ 
tricia,  at  first,  to  find  that  as  concerned  Lichfield  at 
large  any  over-indulgence  in  alcohol  by  a  member  of 
the  Musgrave  family  was  satisfactorily  accounted  for 
by  the  matter-of-course  statement  that  the  Musgraves 
usually  “drank,” — just  as  the  Allardyces  notoriously 
perpetuated  the  taint  of  insanity,  and  the  Townsends 
were  proverbially  unable  “to  let  women  alone,”  and 
the  Vartreys  were  deplorably  prone  to  dabble  in  liter¬ 
ature.  These  things  had  been  for  a  long  while  just 
as  they  were  to-day;  and  therefore  (Lichfield  esti¬ 
mated)  they  must  be  reasonable. 

Then,  too,  Patricia  would  have  preferred  to  have 
been  rid  of  the  old  mulatto  woman  Virginia,  because 
it  was  through  Virginia  that  Miss  Agatha  furtively 
procured  intoxicants.  But  Rudolph  Musgrave  would 
not  consider  Virginia’s  leaving.  “Virginia’s  faithful¬ 
ness  has  been  proven  by  too  many  years  of  faithful 
service”  was  the  formula  with  which  he  dismissed  the 
suggestion.  .  .  .  Afterward  Patricia  learned  from 
Miss  Agatha  of  the  wrong  that  had  been  done  Vir¬ 
ginia  by  Olaf’s  uncle,  Senator  Edward  Musgrave,  the 

123 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


noted  ante-bellum  orator,  and  understood  that  Olaf — 
without,  of  course,  conceding  it  to  himself,  because 
that  was  Olaf  s  way — was  trying  to  make  reparation. 
Patricia  respected  the  sentiment,  and  continued  to  fret 
under  its  manifestation. 

Miss  Agatha  also  told  Patricia  of  how  the  son  of 
Virginia  and  Senator  Musgrave  had  come  to  a  disas¬ 
trous  end — “lynched  in  Texas,  I  believe,  only  it  may 
not  have  been  Texas.  And  indeed  when  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  I  don’t  believe  it  was,  because  I  know  we 
first  heard  of  it  on  a  Monday,  and  Virginia  couldn’t 
do  the  washing  that  week  and  I  had  to  send  it  out. 
And  for  the  usual  crime,  of  course.  It  simply  shows 
you  how  much  better  off  the  darkies  were  before  the 
War,”  Miss  Agatha  said. 

Patricia  refrained  from  comment,  not  being  willing 
to  consider  the  deduction  strained.  For  love  is  a 
contagious  infection;  and  loving  Rudolph  Musgrave 
so  much,  Patricia  must  perforce  love  any  person  whom 
he  loved  as  conscientiously  as  she  would  have  strangled 
any  person  with  whom  he  had  flirted. 

And  yet,  to  Patricia,  it  was  beginning  to  seem  that 
Patricia  Musgrave  was  not  living,  altogether,  in  that 
Lichfield  which  John  Charteris  has  made  immortal — 
“that  nursery  of  Free  Principles”  (according  to  the 
Lichfield  Courier-Herald)  “wherein  so  many  states¬ 
men,  lieutenants-general  and  orators  were  trained  to 
further  the  faith  of  their  fathers,  to  thrill  the  listen¬ 
ing  senates,  draft  constitutions,  and  bruise  the  paws  of 
the  British  lion.” 


124 


IV 


IT  may  be  remembered  that  Lichfield  had  asked 
long  ago,  “But  who,  pray,  are  the  Stapyltons?” 
It  was  characteristic  of  Colonel  Musgrave  that 
he  went  about  answering  the  question  without  delay. 
The  Stapletons — for  “Stapylton”  was  a  happy  innova¬ 
tion  of  Roger  Stapylton’s  dead  wife — the  colonel  knew 
to  have  been  farmers  in  Brummell  County,  and  Brum- 
mell  Courthouse  is  within  an  hour’s  ride,  by  rail,  of 
Lichfield. 

So  he  set  about  his  labor  of  love. 

And  in  it  he  excelled  himself.  The  records  of 
Brummell  date  back  to  1750  and  are  voluminous;  but 
Rudolph  Musgrave  did  not  overlook  an  item  in  any 
Will  Book,  or  in  any  Orders  of  the  Court,  that  per¬ 
tained,  however  remotely,  to  the  Stapletons.  Then  he 
renewed  his  labors  at  the  courthouse  of  the  older 
county  from  which  Brummell  was  formed  in  1750, 
and  through  many  fragmentary,  evil-odored  and  un¬ 
indexed  volumes  indefatigably  pursued  the  family’s 
fortune  back  to  the  immigration  of  its  American  pro¬ 
genitor  in  1619, — and,  by  the  happiest  fatality,  upon 

I25 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


the  same  Bona  Nova  which  enabled  the  first  American 
Musgrave  to  grace  the  Colony  of  Virginia  with  his 
presence.  It  could  no  longer  be  said  that  the  wife  of 
a  Musgrave  of  Matocton  lacked  an  authentic  and  tol¬ 
erably  ancient  pedigree. 

The  colonel  made  a  book  of  his  Stapyltonian  re¬ 
searches  which  he  vaingloriously  proclaimed  to  be  the 
stupidest  reading  within  the  ample  field  of  uninterest¬ 
ing  printed  English.  Patricia  was  allowed  to  see  no 
word  of  it  until  the  first  ten  copies  had  come  from  the 
printer’s,  very  splendid  in  green  “art-vellum”  and 
stamped  with  the  Stapylton  coat-of-arms  in  gold. 

She  read  the  book.  “It  is  perfectly  superb,”  was 
her  verdict.  “It  is  as  dear  as  remembered  kisses 
after  death  and  as  sweet  as  a  plaintiff  in  a  breach-of- 
promise  suit.  Only  I  would  have  preferred  it  served 
with  a  few  kings  and  dukes  for  parsley.  The  Staple- 
tons  don’t  seem  to  have  been  anything  but  perfectly 
respectable  mediocrities.” 

The  colonel  smiled.  At  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
he  shared  Patricia’s  regret  that  the  Stapylton  pedigree 
was  unadorned  by  a  potentate,  because  nobody  can 
stay  unimpressed  by  a  popular  superstition,  however 
crass  the  thing  may  be.  But  for  all  this,  an  appraisal 
of  himself  and  his  own  achievements  profusely  showed 
high  lineage  is  not  invariably  a  guarantee  of  excel¬ 
lence  ;  and  so  he  smiled  and  said : 

“There  are  two  ends  to  every  stick.  It  was  the 
Stapletons  and  others  of  their  sort,  rather  than  any 

soft-handed  Musgraves,  who  converted  a  wilderness, 
126 


APPRECIATION 


a  little  by  a  little,  into  the  America  of  to-day.  The 
task  was  tediously  achieved,  and  without  ostentation ; 
and  always  the  ship  had  its  resplendent  figure-head, 
as  always  it  had  its  hidden,  nay!  grimy,  engines, 
which  propelled  the  ship.  And,  however  direfully 
America  may  differ  from  Utopia,  to  have  assisted  in 
the  making  of  America  is  no  mean  distinction.  We 
Musgraves  and  our  peers,  I  sometimes  think,  may  pos¬ 
sibly  have  been  just  gaudy  autumn  leaves  which  hap¬ 
pened  to  lie  in  the  path  of  a  high  wind.  And  to  cut 
a  gallant  figure  in  such  circumstances  does  not  neces¬ 
sarily  prove  the  performer  to  be  a  rara  avis,  even 
though  he  rides  the  whirlwind  quite  as  splendidly  as 
any  bird  existent.” 

Patricia  fluttered,  and  as  lightly  and  irresponsibly 
as  a  wren  might  have  done,  perched  on  his  knee. 

“No!  there  is  really  something  in  heredity,  after  all. 
Now,  you  are  a  Musgrave  in  every  vein  of  you.  It 
always  seems  like  a  sort  of  flippancy  for  you  to  ap¬ 
pear  in  public  without  a  stock  and  a  tarnished  gilt 
frame  with  most  of  the  gilt  knocked  off  and  a  cata¬ 
logue-number  tucked  in  the  corner.”  Patricia  spoke 
without  any  regard  for  punctuation.  “And  I  am  so 
unlike  you.  I  am  only  a  Stapylton.  I  do  hope  you 
don’t  mind  my  being  merely  a  Stapylton,  Olaf,  because 
if  only  I  wasn’t  too  modest  to  even  think  of  alluding 
\o  the  circumstance,  I  would  try  to  tell  you  about  the 
tiniest  fraction  of  how  much  a  certain  ravishingly 
beautiful  half-strainer  loves  you,  Olaf,  and  the  conse¬ 
quences  would  be  deplorable.” 


127 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


“My  dear - ”  he  began. 

“Ouch!”  said  Patricia;  “you  are  tickling  me.  You 
don’t  shave  half  as  often  as  you  used  to,  do  you? 
No,  nowadays  you  think  you  have  me  safe  and  don’t 
have  to  bother  about  being  attractive.  If  I  had  a 
music-box  I  could  put  your  face  into  it  and  play  all 
sorts  of  tunes,  only  I  prefer  to  look  at  it.  You  are  a 
slattern  and  a  jay-bird  and  a  joy  forever.  And  be¬ 
sides,  the  first  Stapleton  seems  to  have  blundered 
somehow  into  the  House  of  Burgesses,  so  that  en¬ 
titles  me  to  be  a  Colonial  Dame  on  my  father’s  side, 
too,  doesn’t  it,  Olaf?” 

The  colonel  laughed.  “Madam  Vanity!”  said  he, 
“I  repeat  that  to  be  descended  of  a  line  of  czars  or 
from  a  house  of  emperors  is,  at  the  worst,  an  empty 
braggartism,  or,  at  best — upon  the  plea  of  heredity 
— a  handy  palliation  for  iniquity;  and  to  be  descended 
of  sturdy  and  honest  and  clean-blooded  folk  is  beyond 
doubt  preferable,  since  upon  quite  similar  grounds  it 
entitles  one  to  hope  that  even  now,  ‘when  their  genera¬ 
tion  is  gone,  when  their  play  is  over,  when  their  pano¬ 
rama  is  withdrawn  in  tatters  from  the  stage  of  the 
world,’  there  may  yet  survive  of  them  ‘some  few  ac¬ 
tions  worth  remembering,  and  a  few  children  who 
have  retained  some  happy  stamp  from  the  disposition 
of  their  parents.’  ” 

Patricia — with  eyes  widened  in  admiration  at  his 
rhetoric, — had  turned  an  enticing  shade  of  pink. 

“I  am  glad  of  that,”  she  said. 

She  snuggled  so  close  he  could  not  see  her  face  now. 

128 


APPRECIATION 


She  was  to  all  appearances  attempting  to  twist  the 
top-button  from  his  coat. 

“I  am  very  glad  that  it  entitles  one  to  hope — about 
the  children — —  Because - ” 

The  colonel  lifted  her  a  little  from  him.  He  did 
not  say  anything.  But  he  was  regarding  her  half  in 
wonder  and  one-half  in  worship. 

She,  too,  was  silent.  Presently  she  nodded. 

He  kissed  her  as  one  does  a  very  holy  relic. 

It  was  a  moment  to  look  back  upon  always.  There 
was  no  period  in  Rudolph  Musgrave’s  life  when  he 
could  not  look  back  upon  this  instant  and  exult  be¬ 
cause  it  had  been  his. 

*  *  * 

Only,  Patricia  found  out  afterward,  with  an  in¬ 
explicable  disappointment,  that  her  husband  had  not 
been  talking  extempore,  but  was  freely  quoting  his 
“Compiler’s  Foreword”  just  as  it  figured  in  the 
printed  book. 

One  judges  this  posturing,  so  inevitable  of  detection, 
to  have  been  as  significant  of  much  in  Rudolph  Mus- 
grave  as  was  the  fact  of  its  belated  discovery  charac¬ 
teristic  of  Patricia. 

Yet  she  had  read  this  book  about  her  family  from 
purely  normal  motives :  first,  to  make  certain  how  old 
her  various  cousins  were ;  secondly,  to  gloat  over  any 
traces  of  distinction  such  as  her  ancestry  afforded; 
thirdly,  to  note  with  what  exaggerated  importance  the 
text  seemed  to  accredit  those  relatives  she  did  not  es¬ 
teem,  and  mentally  to  annotate  each  page  with  un- 

129 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


printable  events  “which  everybody  knew  about”;  and 
fourthly,  to  reflect,  as  with  a  gush  of  steadily  augment¬ 
ing  love,  how  dear  and  how  unpractical  it  was  of  Olaf 
to  have  concocted  these  date-bristling  pages — so 
staunch  and  blind  in  his  misguided  gratitude  toward 
those  otherwise  uninteresting  people  who  had  rendered 
possible  the  existence  of  a  Patricia. 


130 


MATTERS  went  badly  with  Patricia  in  the  en¬ 
suing  months.  Her  mother’s  blood  told 
here,  as  Colonel  Musgrave  saw  with  dis¬ 
quietude.  He  knew  the  women  of  his  race  had  by 
ordinary  been  unfit  for  childbearing;  indeed,  the 
daughters  of  this  famous  house  had  long,  in  a  grim 
routine,  perished,  just  as  Patricia’s  mother  had  done, 
in  their  first  maternal  essay.  There  were  many  hide¬ 
ous  histories  the  colonel  could  have  told  you  of,  un¬ 
meet  to  be  set  down,  and  he  was  familiar  with  this 
talk  of  pelvic  anomalies  which  were  congenital.  But 
he  had  never  thought  of  Patricia,  till  this,  as  being  his 
kinswoman,  and  in  part  a  Musgrave. 

And  even  now  the  Stapylton  blood  that  was  in  her 
pulled  Patricia  through  long  weeks  of  anguish.  Sur¬ 
geons  dealt  with  her  very  horribly  in  a  famed  North¬ 
ern  hospital,  whither  she  had  been  removed.  By  her 
obdurate  request — and  secretly,  to  his  own  preference, 
since  it  was  never  in  his  power  to  meet  discomfort 
willingly — Colonel  Musgrave  had  remained  in  Lich¬ 
field.  Patricia  knew  that  officious  people  would  tell 

J31 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


him  her  life  could  be  saved  only  by  the  destruction  of 
an  unborn  boy. 

She  never  questioned  her  child  would  be  a  boy. 
She  knew  that  Olaf  wanted  a  boy. 

“Oh,  even  more  than  he  does  me,  daddy.  And  so 
he  mustn’t  know,  you  see,  until  it  is  all  over.  Because 
Olaf  is  such  an  ill-informed  person  that  he  really 
believes  he  prefers  me.” 

“Pat,”  her  father  inconsequently  said,  “I’m  proud 
of  you!  And — and,  by  God,  if  I  want  to  cry,  I  guess  I 
am  old  enough  to  know  my  own  mind !  And  I’ll  help 
you  in  this  if  you’ll  only  promise  not  to  die  in  spite 
of  what  these  damn’  doctors  say,  because  you’re  mine, 
Pat,  and  so  you  realize  a  bargain  is  a  bargain.” 

“Yes — I  am  really  yours,  daddy.  It  is  just  my 
crazy  body  that  is  a  Musgrave,”  Patricia  explained. 
“The  real  me  is  an  unfortunate  Stapylton  who  has 
somehow  got  locked  up  in  the  wrong  house.  It  is  not 
a  desirable  residence,  you  know,  daddy.  No  modern 
improvements,  for  instance.  But  I  have  to  live  in  it ! 
.  .  .  Still,  I  have  not  the  least  intention  of  dying,  and 
I  solemnly  promise  that  I  won’t.” 

So  these  two  hoodwinked  Rudolph  Musgrave,  and 
brought  it  about  by  subterfuge  that  his  child  was  born. 
At  most  he  vaguely  understood  that  Patricia  was  hav¬ 
ing  rather  a  hard  time  of  it,  and  steadfastly  drugged 
this  knowledge  by  the  performance  of  trivialities.  He 
was  eating  a  cucumber  sandwich  at  the  moment  young 
Roger  Musgrave  came  into  the  world,  and  by  that 
action  very  nearly  accomplished  Patricia’s  death. 

132 


VI 


AND  the  gods  cursed  Roger  Stapylton  with  such  a 
pride  in,  and  so  great  a  love  for,  his  only 
grandson  that  the  old  man  could  hardly  bear 
to  be  out  of  the  infant’s  presence.  He  was  frequently  * 
in  Lichfield  nowadays;  and  he  renewed  his  demands 
that  Rudolph  Musgrave  give  up  the  exhaustively- 
particularized  librarianship,  so  that  “the  little  coot” 
would  be  removed  to  New  York  and  all  three  of  them 
be  with  Roger  Stapylton  always. 

Patricia  had  not  been  well  since  little  Roger’s  birth. 

It  was  a  peaked  and  shrewish  Patricia,  rather  than 
Rudolph  Musgrave,  who  fought  out  the  long  and 
obstinate  battle  with  Roger  Stapylton. 

She  was  jealous  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart.  She 
would  not  have  anyone,  not  even  her  father,  be  too 
fond  of  what  was  preeminently  hers;  the  world  at 
large,  including  Rudolph  Musgrave,  was  at  liberty 
to  adore  her  boy,  as  was  perfectly  natural,  but  not  to 
meddle :  and  in  fine,  Patricia  was  both  hysterical  and 
vixenish  whenever  a  giving  up  of  the  Library  work 
was  suggested. 


133 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER'S  NECK 


The  old  man  did  not  quarrel  with  her.  And  with 
Roger  Stapylton’s  loneliness  in  these  days,  and  the 
long  thoughts  it  bred,  we  have  nothing  here  to  do. 
But  when  he  died,  stricken  without  warning,  some 
five  years  after  Patricia’s  marriage,  his  will  was  dis¬ 
covered  to  bequeath  practically  his  entire  fortune  to 
little  Roger  Musgrave  when  the  child  should  come  of 
age ;  and  to  Rudolph  Musgrave,  as  Patricia’s  husband, 
what  was  a  reasonable  income  when  judged  by  Lich¬ 
field’s  unexacting  standards  rather  than  by  Patricia’s 
anticipations.  In  a  word,  Patricia  found  that  she  and 
the  colonel  could  for  the  future  count  upon  a  little 
more  than  half  of  the  income  she  had  previously 
been  allowed  by  Roger  Stapylton. 

“It  isn’t  fair!”  she  said.  “It’s  monstrous!  And 
all  because  you  were  so  obstinate  about  your  pica¬ 
yune  Library!” 

“Patricia - ”  he  began. 

“Oh,  I  tell  you  it’s  absurd,  Olaf !  The  money  logi¬ 
cally  ought  to  have  been  left  to  me.  And  here  I  will 
have  to  come  to  you  for  every  penny  of  my  money. 
And  Heaven  knows  I  have  had  to  scrimp  enough  to 
support  us  all  on  what  I  used  to  have — Olaf,”  Pa¬ 
tricia  said,  in  another  voice,  “Olaf!  why,  what  is  it, 
dear?” 

“I  was  reflecting,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave,  “that, 
as  you  justly  observe,  both  Agatha  and  I  have  been 
practically  indebted  to  you  for  our  support  these  past 
five  years — * — ” 


134 


VII 


IT  must  be  enregistered,  not  to  the  man's  credit, 
but  rather  as  a  simple  fact,  that  it  was  never 
within  Colonel  Musgrave’s  power  to  forget  the 
incident  immediately  recorded. 

He  forgave;  when  Patricia  wept,  seeing  how  leaden- 
colored  his  handsome  face  had  turned,  he  forgave  as 
promptly  and  as  freely  as  he  was  learning  to  pardon 
the  telling  of  a  serviceable  lie,  or  the  perpetration 
of  an  occasional  barbarism  in  speech,  by  Patricia. 
For  he,  a  Musgrave  of  Matocton,  had  married  a  Sta- 
pylton;  he  had  begun  to  comprehend  that  their  stand¬ 
ards  were  different,  and  that  some  daily  conflict  be¬ 
tween  these  standards  was  inevitable. 

And  besides,  as  it  has  been  veraciously  observed, 
the  truth  of  an  insult  is  the  barb  which  prevents 
its  retraction.  Patricia  spoke  the  truth:  Rudolph 
Musgrave  and  all  those  rationally  reliant  upon  Ru¬ 
dolph  Musgrave  for  support,  had  lived  for  some  five 
years  upon  the  money  which  they  owed  to  Patricia. 
He  saw  about  him  other  scions  of  old  families  who 
accepted  such  circumstances  blithely:  but,  he  said,  he 

135 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


was  a  Musgrave  of  Matocton;  and,  he  reflected,  in 
the  kingdom  of  the  blind  the  one-eyed  is  necessarily 
very  unhappy. 

He  did  not  mean  to  touch  a  penny  of  such  moneys 
as  Roger  Stapylton  had  bequeathed  to  him;  for  the 
colonel  considered — now — it  was  a  man’s  duty  per¬ 
sonally  to  support  his  wife  and  child  and  sister.  And 
he  vigorously  attempted  to  discharge  this  obligation, 
alike  by  virtue  of  his  salary  at  the  Library,  and 
by  spasmodic  raids  upon  his  tiny  capital,  and — chief 
of  all — by  speculation  in  the  Stock  Market. 

Oddly  enough,  his  ventures  were  through  a  long 
while — for  the  most  part — successful.  Here  he 
builded  a  desperate  edifice  whose  foundations  were 
his  social  talents;  and  it  was  with  quaint  self-abhor¬ 
rence  he  often  noted  how  the  telling  of  a  smutty  jest 
or  the  insistence  upon  a  manifestly  superfluous  glass 
of  wine  had  purchased  from  some  properly  tickled 
magnate  a  much  desiderated  “tip.” 

And  presently  these  tips  misled  him.  So  the 
colonel  borrowed  from  “Patricia’s  account.” 

And  on  this  occasion  he  guessed  correctly. 

And  then  he  stumbled  upon  such  a  chance  for  re¬ 
investment  as  does  not  often  arrive.  And  so  he  bor¬ 
rowed  a  trifle  more  in  common  justice  to  Pa¬ 
tricia.  .  .  . 


136 


VIII 


WHEN  those  then  famous  warriors.  Colonel 
Gaynor  and  Captain  Green,  were  obsti¬ 
nately  fighting  extradition  in  Quebec; 
when  in  Washington  the  Senate  was  wording  a  suit¬ 
able  resolution  wherewith  to  congratulate  Cuba  upon 
that  island’s  brand-new  independence ;  and  when  Mes¬ 
sieurs  Fitzsimmons  and  Jeffries  were  making  amica¬ 
ble  arrangements  in  San  Francisco  to  fight  for  the 
world’s  championship : — at  this  remote  time,  in  Chi¬ 
cago  (on  the  same  day,  indeed,  that  in  this  very  city 
Mr.  S.  E.  Gross  was  legally  declared  the  author  of 
a  play  called  Cyrano  de  Bergerac ),  the  Sons  of  the 
Colonial  Governors  opened  their  tenth  biennial  conven¬ 
tion.  You  may  depend  upon  it  that  Colonel  Rudolph 
Musgrave  represented  the  Lichfield  chapter. 

It  was  two  days  later  the  telegram  arrived.  It 
read : 

Agatha  very  ill  come  to  me  roger  in  perfect  health. 

Patricia. 

He  noted  how  with  Stapyltonian  thrift  Patricia 
telegraphed  ten  words  precisely.  .  .  . 


137 


And  when  he  had  reached  home,  late  in  the  evening, 
the  colonel,  not  having  taken  his  bunch  of  keys  with 
him,  laid  down  his  dress-suit  case  on  the  dark  porch, 
and  reached  out  one  hand  to  the  doorbell.  He  found  it 
muffled  with  some  flimsy,  gritty  fabric.  He  did  not 
ring. 

Upon  the  porch  was  a  rustic  bench.  He  sat  upon 
it  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour — precisely  where  he  had 
first  talked  with  Agatha  about  Patricia’s  first  coming 
to  Lichfield.  .  .  .  Once  the  door  of  a  house  across 
the  street  was  opened,  with  a  widening  gush  of  amber 
light  wherein  he  saw  three  women  fitting  wraps  about 
them.  One  of  them  was  adjusting  a  lace  scarf  above 
her  hair. 

“No,  we’re  not  a  bit  afraid — Just  around  the  cor¬ 
ner,  you  know — Such  a  pleasant  evening — t — ”  Their 
voices  carried  far  in  the  still  night. 

Rudolph  Musgrave  was  not  thinking  of  anything. 

Presently  he  went  around  through  the  side  entrance, 
and  thus  came  into  the  kitchen,  where  the  old  mulat- 
tress,  Virginia,  was  sitting  alone.  The  room  was  very 
hot.  ...  In  Agatha’s  time  supper  would  have  been 
cooked  upon  the  gas-range  in  the  cellar,  he  reflected. 
.  .  .  Virginia  had  risen  and  made  as  though  to  take 
his  dress-suit  case,  her  pleasant  yellow  face  as  im¬ 
perturbable  as  an  idol’s. 

“No — don’t  bother,  Virginia/’  said  Colonel  Mus¬ 
grave. 

He  met  Patricia  in  the  dining-room,  on  her  way  to 
the  kitchen.  She  had  not  chosen — as  even  the  most 

138 


APPRECIATION 


sensible  of  us  will  instinctively  decline  to  do — to  vex 
the  quiet  of  a  house  wherein  death  was  by  ringing 
a  bell. 

Holding  his  hand  in  hers,  fondling  it  as  she  talked, 
Patricia  told  how  three  nights  before  Miss  Agatha 
had  been  “queer,  you  know,”  at  supper.  Patricia 
had  not  liked  to  leave  her,  but  it  was  the  night  of 
the  Woman’s  Club’s  second  Whist  Tournament.  And 
Virginia  had  promised  to  watch  Miss  Agatha.  And, 
anyhow,  Miss  Agatha  had  gone  to  bed  before  Pa¬ 
tricia  left  the  house,  and  anybody  would  have  thought 
she  was  going  to  sleep  all  night.  And,  in  fine,  Pa¬ 
tricia’s  return  at  a  drizzling  half-past  eleven  had  found 
Miss  Agatha  sitting  in  the  garden,  in  her  night-dress 
only,  weeping  over  fancied  grievances — and  Virginia 
asleep  in  the  kitchen.  And  Agatha  had  died  that 
afternoon  of  pneumonia. 

Even  in  the  last  half-stupor  she  was  asking  always 
when  would  Rudolph  come?  Patricia  told  him.  .  .  . 

Rudolph  Musgrave  did  not  say  anything.  With¬ 
out  any  apparent  emotion  he  put  Patricia  aside,  much 
as  he  did  the  dress-suit  case  which  he  had  forgotten 
to  lay  down  until  Patricia  had  ended  her  recital. 

He  went  upstairs — to  the  front  room,  Patricia’s 
bedroom.  Patricia  followed  him. 

Agatha’s  body  lay  upon  the  bed,  with  a  sheet  over 
all.  The  undertaker’s  skill  had  arranged  everything 
with  smug  and  horrible  tranquillity. 

Rudolph  Musgrave  remembered  he  was  forty-six 
years  old;  and  when  in  all  these  years  had  there  been 

139 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


a  moment  when  Agatha — the  real  Agatha — had  not 
known  that  what  he  had  done  was  self-evidently  cor¬ 
rect,  because  otherwise  Rudolph  would  not  have 
done  it? 

“I  trust  you  enjoyed  your  whist-game,  Patricia.” 

“Well,  I  couldn’t  help  it.  I’m  not  running  a  sani¬ 
tarium.  I  wasn’t  responsible  for  her  eternal  drink- 
mg. 

The  words  skipped  out  of  either  mouth  like  gleeful 
little  devils. 

Then  both  were  afraid,  and  both  were  as  icily  tran¬ 
quil  as  the  thing  upon  the  bed.  You  could  not  hear 
anything  except  the  clock  upon  the  mantel.  Colonel 
Musgrave  went  to  the  mantel,  opened  the  clock,  and 
with  an  odd  deliberation  removed  the  pendulum  from 
its  hook.  Followed  one  metallic  gasp,  as  of  indig¬ 
nation,  and  then  silence. 

He  spoke,  still  staring  at  the  clock,  his  back  turned 
to  Patricia.,  “You  must  be  utterly  worn  out.  You 
had  better  go  to  bed.” 

He  shifted  by  the  fraction  of  an  inch  the  old-fash¬ 
ioned  “hand-colored”  daguerreotype  of  his  father  in 
Confederate  uniform.  “Please  don’t  wear  that  black 
dress  again.  It  is  no  cause  for  mourning  that  we  are 
rid  of  an  encumbrance.” 

Behind  him,  very  far  away,  it  seemed,  he  heard  Pa¬ 
tricia  wailing,  “Olaf - !” 

Colonel  Musgrave  turned  without  any  haste. 
“Please  go,”  he  said,  and  appeared  to  plead  with  her. 
“You  must  be  frightfully  tired.  I  am  sorry  that  I 
140 


APPRECIATION 


was  not  here.  I  seem  always  to  evade  my  responsi¬ 
bilities,  somehow - ” 

Then  he  began  to  laugh.  “It  is  rather  amusing, 
after  all.  Agatha  was  the  most  noble  person  I  have 
ever  known.  The — this  habit  of  hers  to  which  you 
have  alluded  was  not  a  part  of  her.  And  I  loved 
Agatha.  And  I  suppose  loving  is  not  altogether  de¬ 
pendent  upon  logic.  In  any  event,  I  loved  Agatha. 
And  when  I  came  back  to  her  I  had  come  home, 
somehow — wherever  she  might  be  at  the  time.  That 
has  been  true,  oh,  ever  since  I  can  remember — — ” 

He  touched  the  dead  hand  now.  “Please  go!” 
he  said,  and  he  did  not  look  toward  Patricia.  “For 
Agatha  loved  me  better  than  she  did  God,  you  know. 
The  curse  was  born  in  her.  She  had  to  pay  for 
what  those  dead,  soft-handed  Musgraves  did.  That 
is  why  her  hands  are  so  cold  now.  She  had  to  pay 
for  the  privilege  of  being  a  Musgrave,  you  see.  But 
then  we  cannot  always  pick  and  choose  as  to  what 
we  prefer  to  be.” 

“Oh,  yes,  of  course,  it  is  all  my  fault.  Every¬ 
thing  is  my  fault.  But  God  knows  what  would  have 
become  of  you  and  your  Agatha  if  it  hadn’t  been  for 
me.  Oh!  oh!”  Patricia  wailed.  “I  was  a  child  and 
I  hadn’t  any  better  sense,  and  I  married  you,  and 
you’ve  been  living  off  my  money  ever  since!  There 
hasn’t  been  a  Christmas  present  or  a  funeral  wreath 
bought  in  this  house  since  I  came  into  it  I  didn’t  pick 
out  and  pay  for  out  of  my  own  pocket.  And  all  the 
thanks  I  get  for  it  is  this  perpetual  fault-finding,  and 

141 


I  wish  I  was  dead  like  this  poor  saint  here.  She 
spent  her  life  slaving  for  you.  And  what  thanks 
did  she  get  for  it?  Oh,  you  ought  to  go  down  on 
your  knees,  Rudolph  Musgrave — ♦ — !” 

“Please  leave,”  he  said. 

“I  will  leave  when  I  feel  like  it,  and  not  a  single 
minute  before,  and  you  might  just  as  well  under¬ 
stand  as  much.  You  have  been  living  off  my  money. 
Oh,  you  needn’t  go  to  the  trouble  of  lying.  And 
she  did  too.  And  she  hated  me,  she  always  hated 
me,  because  I  had  been  fool  enough  to  marry  you, 
and  she  carried  on  like  a  lunatic  more  than  half 
the  time,  and  I  always  pretended  not  to  notice  it, 
and  this  is  my  reward  for  trying  to  behave  like  a 
lady.” 

Patricia  tossed  her  head.  “Yes,  and  you  needn’t 
look  at  me  as  if  I  were  some  sort  of  a  bug  you 
hadn’t  ever  seen  before  and  didn’t  approve  of,  because 
I’ve  seen  you  try  that  high-and-mighty  trick  too  often 
for  it  to  work  with  me.” 

Patricia  stood  now  beneath  the  Stuart  portrait  of 
young  Gerald  Musgrave.  She  had  insisted,  long  ago, 
that  it  be  hung  in  her  own  bedroom — “because  it 
was  through  that  beautiful  boy  we  first  got  really 
acquainted,  Olaf.”  The  boy  smiles  at  you  from  the 
canvas,  smiles  ambiguously,  as  the  colonel  now 
noted. 

“I  think  you  had  better  go,”  said  Colonel  Mus¬ 
grave.  “Please  go,  Patricia,  before  I  murder  you.” 

She  saw  that  he  was  speaking  in  perfect  earnest, 
142 


IX 


RUDOLPH  MUSGRAVE  sat  all  night  beside 
the  body.  He  had  declined  to  speak  with 
innumerable  sympathetic  cousins — Vartreys 
and  Fentons  and  Allardyces  and  Musgraves,  to  the 
fifth  and  sixth  remove — who  had  come  from  all  quar¬ 
ters,  with  visiting-cards  and  low-voiced  requests  to 
be  informed  “if  there  is  anything  we  can  possibly  do.” 

Rudolph  Musgrave  sat  all  night  beside  the  body. 
He  had  not  any  strength  for  anger  now,  and  hardly 
for  grief.  Agatha  had  been  his  charge;  and  the  fact 
that  he  had  never  plucked  up  courage  to  allude  to 
her  practises  was  now  an  enormity  in  which  he  could 
not  quite  believe.  His  cowardice  and  its  fruitage 
confronted  him,  and  frightened  him  into  a  panic 
frenzy  of  remorse. 

Agatha  had  been  his  charge  ;  and  he  had  entrusted 
the  stewardship  to  Patricia.  Between  them — that  Pa¬ 
tricia  might  have  her  card-game,  that  he  might  sit 
upon  a  platform  for  an  hour  or  two  with  a  half- 
dozen  other  pompous  fools — they  had  let  Agatha  die. 
There  was  no  mercy  in  him  for  Patricia  or  for  him¬ 
self. 


143 


He  wished  Patricia  had  been  a  man.  Had  any  man 
— an  emperor  or  a  coal-heaver,  it  would  not  have  mat¬ 
tered — spoken  as  Patricia  had  done  within  the  mo¬ 
ment,  here,  within  arm’s  reach  of  the  poor  flesh  that 
had  been  Agatha’s,  Rudolph  Musgrave  would  have 
known  his  duty.  But,  according  to  his  code,  it  was 
not  permitted  to  be  discourteous  to  a  woman.  .  .  . 

He  caught  himself  with  grotesque  meanness  wish¬ 
ing  that  Agatha  had  been  there, — privileged  by  her 
sex  where  he  was  fettered, — she  who  was  so  gen¬ 
erous  of  heart  and  so  fiery  of  tongue  at  need;  and 
comprehension  that  Agatha  would  never  abet  or  adore 
him  any  more  smote  him  anew. 

*  *  * 

And  chance  reserved  for  him  more  poignant  tor¬ 
ture.  Next  day,  while  Rudolph  Musgrave  was  mak¬ 
ing  out  the  list  of  honorary  pall-bearers,  the  post¬ 
man  brought  a  letter  which  had  been  forwarded  from 
Chicago.  It  was  from  Agatha,  written  upon  the 
morning  of  that  day  wherein  later  she  had  been,  as 
Patricia  phrased  it,  “queer,  you  know.” 

He  found  it  wildly  droll  to  puzzle  out  those 
“crossed”  four  sheets  of  trivialities  written  in  an 
Italian  hand  so  minute  and  orderly  that  the  finished 
page  suggested  a  fly-screen.  He  had  so  often  remon¬ 
strated  with  Agatha  about  her  penuriousness  as  con¬ 
cerned  stationery. 

“Selina  Brice  &  the  Rev’d  Henry  Anstruther,  who  now 
has  a  church  in  Seattle,  have  announced  their  engage- 

144 


APPRECIATION 


ment.  Stanley  Haggage  has  gone  to  Alabama  to  marry 
Leonora  Bright,  who  moved  from  here  a  year  ago.  They 
are  both  as  poor  as  church  mice,  &  I  think  marriage  in 
such  a  case  an  unwise  step  for  anyone.  It  brings  cares 
&  anxieties  enough  any  way,  without  starting  out 
with  poverty  to  increase  and  render  deeper  every 
trouble.  .  . 

Such  was  the  tenor  of  Agatha's  last  letter,  of  the 
last  self-expression  of  that  effigy  upstairs  who  (you 
could  see)  knew  everything  and  was  not  discontent. 

Here  the  dead  spoke,  omniscient;  and  told  you 
that  Stanley  Haggage  had  gone  to  Alabama,  and  that 
marriage  brought  new  cares  and  anxieties. 

“I  cannot  laugh,"  said  Rudolph  Musgrave,  aloud. 
“I  know  the  jest  deserves  it.  But  I  cannot  laugh, 
because  my  upper  lip  seems  to  be  made  of  leather 
and  I  can’t  move  it.  And,  besides,  I  loved  Agatha 
to  a  degree  which  only  You  and  I  have  ever  known 
of.  She  never  understood  quite  how  I  loved  her. 
Oh,  won’t  You  make  her  understand  just  how  I  loved 
her?  For  Agatha  is  dead,  because  You  wanted  her 
to  be  dead,  and  I  have  never  told  her  how  much 
I  loved  her,  and  now  I  cannot  ever  tell  her  how  much 
I  loved  her.  Oh,  won’t  You  please  show  me  that 
You  have  made  her  understand?  or  else  have  me 
struck  by  lightning?  or  do  anything  .  *  .  ?” 

Nothing  was  done. 


*45 


AND  afterward  Rudolph  Musgrave  and  his  wife 
met  amicably,  and  without  reference  to  their 
last  talk.  Patricia  wore  black-and-white  for 
some  six  months,  and  Colonel  Musgrave  accepted  the 
compromise  tacitly.  All  passed  with  perfect  smooth¬ 
ness  between  them;  and  anyone  in  Lichfield  would 
have  told  you  that  the  Musgraves  were  a  model 
couple. 

She  called  him  “Rudolph”  now. 

“Olaf  is  such  a  silly-sounding  nickname  for  two  old 
married  people,  you  know,”  Patricia  estimated. 

The  colonel  negligently  said  that  he  supposed  it 
did  sound  odd. 

“Only  I  don’t  think  Clarice  Pendomer  would  care 
about  coming,”  he  resumed, — for  the  two  were  dis¬ 
cussing  an  uncompleted  list  of  the  people  Patricia 
was  to  invite  to  their  first  house-party. 

“And  for  heaven’s  sake,  why  not?  We  always 
have  her  to  everything.” 

He  could  not  tell  her  it  was  because  the  Charterises 
were  to  be  among  their  guests.  So  he  said;  “Oh, 
well - 1” 


146 


APPRECIATION 


“Mrs.  C.  B.  Pendomer,  then” — Patricia  wrote  the 
name  with  a  flourish.  “Oh,  you  jay-bird,  Pm  not 
jealous.  Everybody  knows  you  never  had  any  more 
morals  than  a  tom-cat  on  the  back  fence.  It’s  a  lucky 
thing  the  boy  didn't  take  after  you,  isn’t  it?  He 
doesn’t,  not  a  bit.  No,  Harry  Pendomer  is  the  puniest 
black-haired  little  wretch,  whereas  your  other  son, 
sir,  resembles  his  mother  and  is  in  consequence 
a  ravishingly  beautiful  person  of  superlative 
charm - •” 

He  was  staring  at  her  so  oddly  that  she  paused. 
So  Patricia  was  familiar  with  that  old  scandal  which 
linked  his  name  with  Clarice  Pendomer’s!  He  was 
wondering  if  Patricia  had  married  him  in  the  belief 
that  she  was  marrying  a  man  who,  appraised  by  any 
standards,  had  acted  infamously. 

“I  was  only  thinking  you  had  better  ask  Judge 
Allardyce,  Patricia.  You  see,  he  is  absolutely  cer¬ 
tain  not  to  come - ” 

*  *  * 

This  year  the  Musgraves  had  decided  not  to  spend 

the  spring  alone  together  at  Matocton,  as  they  had 

done  the  four  preceding  years. 

“It  looks  so  silly,”  as  Patricia  pointed  out. 

And,  besides,  a  house-party  is  the  most  economical 
method, — as  she  also  pointed  out,  being  born  a  Sta- 
pylton — of  paying  off  your  social  obligations,  because 
you  can  always  ask  so  many  people  who,  you  know, 

have  made  other  plans,  and  cannot  accept. 

*  *  * 


147 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


“So  we  will  invite  Judge  Allardyce,  of  course,” 
said  Patricia.  “I  had  forgotten  his  court  met  in 
June.  Oh,  and  Peter  Blagden  too.  It  had  slipped 
my  mind  his  uncle  was  dead.  .  . 

“I  learned  this  morning  Mrs.  Haggage  was  to  lec¬ 
ture  in  Louisville  on  the  sixteenth.  She  was  reading 

up  in  the  Library,  you  see - ” 

“Rudolph,  you  are  the  lodestar  of  my  existence. 
I  will  ask  her  to  come  on  the  fourteenth  and  spend 
a  week.  I  never  could  abide  the  hag,  but  she  has 
such  a — There!  I’ve  made  a  big  blot  right  in  the 
middle  of  ‘darling/  and  spoiled  a  perfectly  good  sheet 
of  paper!  .  .  .  You’d  better  mail  it  at  once,  though, 
because  the  evening-paper  may  have  something  in  it 
about  her  lecture.” 


[148 


XI 


Rudolph— 

‘‘Why — er — yes,  dear?” 

This  was  after  supper,  and  Patricia  was 
playing  solitaire.  Her  husband  was  reading  the 
paper. 

“Agatha  told  me  all  about  Virginia,  you  know — ♦ — ” 
Here  Colonel  Musgrave  frowned.  “It  is  not  a 
pleasant  topic.” 

“You  jay-bird,  you  behave  entirely  too  much  as 
if  you  were  my  grandfather.  As  I  was  saying,  Aga¬ 
tha  told  me  all  about  your  uncle  and  Virginia,”  Pa¬ 
tricia  hurried  on.  “And  how  she  ran  away  after¬ 
wards,  and  hid  in  the  woods  for  three  days,  and 
came  to  your  father’s  plantation,  and  how  your  father 
bought  her,  and  how  her  son  was  born,  and  how 

her  son  was  lynched - ” 

“Now,  really,  Patricia!  Surely  there  are  other 
matters  which  may  be  more  profitably  discussed.” 

“Of  course.  Now,  for  instance,  why  is  the  King 
of  Hearts  the  only  one  that  hasn’t  a  moustache?” 
Patricia  peeped  to  see  what  cards  lay  beneath  that 

1149 


monarch,  and  upon  reflection  moved  the  King  of 
Spades  into  the  vacant  space.  She  was  a  devotee 
of  solitaire  and  invariably  cheated  at  it. 

She  went  on,  absently:  “But  don’t  you  see?  That 
colored  boy  was  your  own  first  cousin,  and  he  was 
killed  for  doing  exactly  what  his  father  had  done. 
Only  they  sent  the  father  to  the  Senate  and  gave  him 
columns  of  flubdub  and  laid  him  out  in  state  when 
he  died — and  they  poured  kerosene  upon  the  son  and 
burned  him  alive.  And  I  believe  Virginia  thinks  that 
wasn’t  fair.” 

“What  do  you  mean?” 

“I  honestly  believe  Virginia  hates  the  Musgraves. 
She  is  only  a  negro,  of  course,  but  then  she  was  a 

mother  once — Oh,  yes !  all  I  need  is  a  black  eight - ” 

Patricia  demanded,  “Now  look  at  your  brother  Hec¬ 
tor — the  awfully  dissipated  one  that  died  of  an  over¬ 
dose  of  opiates.  When  it  happened  wasn’t  Virginia 
taking  care  of  him?” 

“Of  course.  She  is  an  invaluable  nurse.” 

“And  nobody  else  was  here  when  Agatha  went 
out  into  the  rain.  Now,  what  if  she  had  just  let 
Agatha  go,  without  trying  to  stop  her?  It  would 
have  been  perfectly  simple.  So  is  this.  All  I  have 
to  do  is  to  take  them  off  now.” 

Colonel  Musgrave  negligently  returned  to  his 
perusal  of  the  afternoon  paper.  “You  are  suggest¬ 
ing — if  you  will  overlook  my  frankness — the  most  de¬ 
plorable  sort  of  nonsense,  Patricia.” 

“I  know  exactly  how  Balaam  felt,”  she  said,  ir- 
150 


APPRECIATION 


relevantly,  and  fell  to  shuffling  the  cards.  “You  don’t, 
and  you  won’t,  understand  that  Virginia  is  a  human 
being.  In  any  event,  I  wish  you  would  get  rid  of 
her.” 

“I  couldn’t  decently  do  that,”  said  Rudolph  Mus- 
grave,  with  careful  patience.  “Virginia’s  faithful¬ 
ness  has  been  proven  by  too  many  years  of  faithful 
service.  Nothing  more  strikingly  attests  the  folly 
of  freeing  the  negro  than  the  unwillingness  of  the 
better  class  of  slaves  to  leave  their  former  own- 


“Now  you  are  going  to  quote  a  paragraph  or  so 
from  your  Gracious  Era.  As  if  I  hadn’t  read  every¬ 
thing  you  ever  wrote!  You  are  a  fearful  humbug  in 
some  ways,  Rudolph.” 

“And  you  are  a  red-headed  rattlepate,  madam. 
But  seriously,  Patricia,  you  who  were  reared  in  the 
North  are  strangely  unwilling  to  concede  that  we  of 
the  South  are  after  all  best  qualified  to  deal  with 
the  Negro  Problem.  We  know  the  negro  as  you 
cannot  ever  know  him.” 

“You!  Oh,  God  ha’  mercy  on  us!”  mocked  Pa¬ 
tricia.  “There  wasn’t  any  Negro  Problem  hereabouts, 
you  beautiful  idiot,  so  long  as  there  were  any  ne¬ 
groes.  Why,  to-day  there  is  hardly  one  full-blooded 
negro  in  Lichfield.  There  are  only  a  thousand  or 
so  of  mulattoes  who  share  the  blood  of  people  like 
your  Uncle  Edward.  And  for  the  most  part  they 
take  after  their  white  kin,  unfortunately.  And  there 
you  have  the  Lichfield  Negro  Problem  in  a  nutshell. 

151 


It  is  a  venerable  one  and  fully  set  forth  in  the  Bi¬ 
ble.  You  needn’t  attempt  to  argue  with  me,  because 
you  are  a  ninnyhammer,  and  I  am  a  second  Nestor. 
The  Holy  Scriptures  are  perfectly  explicit  as  to  what 
happens  to  the  heads  of  the  children  and  their  teeth 
too.” 

“I  wish  you  wouldn’t  jest  about  such  matters - ” 

“Because  it  isn’t  lady-like?  But,  Rudolph,  you 
know  perfectly  well  that  I  am  not  a  lady.” 

“My  dear!”  he  cried,  in  horror  that  was  real,  “and 
what  on  earth  have  I  said  even  to  suggest - ” 

“Oh,  not  a  syllable;  it  isn’t  at  all  the  sort  of  thing 
that  your  sort  says.  .  .  .  And  I  am  not  your  sort. 
I  don’t  know  that  I  altogether  wish  I  were.  But  if 
I  were,  it  would  certainly  make  things  easier,”  Pa¬ 
tricia  added  sharply. 

“My  dear — ♦ — !”  he  again  protested. 

“Now,  candidly,  Rudolph” — relinquishing  the  game, 
she  fell  to  shuffling  the  cards — “just  count  up  the  num¬ 
ber  of  times  this  month  that  my — oh,  well!  I  really 
don’t  know  what  to  call  it  except  my  deplorable  omis¬ 
sion  in  failing  to  be  born  a  lady — has  seemed  to  you 
to  yank  the  very  last  rag  off  the  gooseberry-bush?” 

He  scoffed.  “What  nonsense!  Although,  of  course, 
Patricia — — ” 

She  nodded,  mischief  in  her  brightly-colored  tiny 
face.  “Yes,  that  is  just  your  attitude,  you  beautiful 
idiot.” 

“ — although,  of  course — now,  quite  honestly,  Pa¬ 
tricia,  I  have  occasionally  wished  that  you  would  not 

152 


APPRECIATION 


speak  of  sacred  and — er,  physical  and  sociological 
matters  in  exactly  the  tone  in  which — well!  in  which 
you  sometimes  do  speak  of  them.  It  may  sound 
old-fashioned,  but  I  have  always  believed  that  de¬ 
cency  is  quite  as  important  in  mental  affairs  as  it 
is  in  physical  ones,  and  that  as  a  consequence,  a  gen¬ 
tlewoman  should  always  clothe  her  thoughts  with  at 
least  the  same  care  she  accords  her  body.  Oh,  don’t 
misunderstand  me !  Of  course  it  doesn’t  do  any  harm, 
my  dear,  between  us.  But  outside — you  see,  for  peo¬ 
ple  to  know  that  you  think  about  such  things  must 
necessarily  give  them  a  false  opinion  of  you.” 

Patricia  meditated. 

She  said,  with  utter  solemnity,  “Anathema  mara- 
natha !  oh,  hell  to  damn !  may  the  noses  of  all  respect¬ 
able  people  be  turned  upside  down  and  jackasses  deftice 
eternally  upon  their  grandmothers’  graves!” 

“Patricia — 1 — !”  cried  a  shocked  colonel. 

“I  mean  every  syllable  of  it.  No,  Rudolph;  I  can’t 
help  it  if  the  vinaigretted  beauties  of  your  boyhood 
were  unabridged  dictionaries  of  prudery.  You  see, 
I  know  almost  all  the  swearwords  there  are.  And  I 
read  the  newspapers,  and  medical  books,  and  even 
the  things  that  boys  chalk  up  on  fences.  In  conse¬ 
quence  I  am  not  a  bit  whiteminded,  because  if  you 
use  your  mind  at  all  it  gets  more  or  less  dingy,  just 
like  using  anything  else.” 

He  could  not  help  but  laugh,  much  as  he  disap¬ 
proved.  Patricia  fluttered  and,  as  a  wren  might  have 
done,  perched  presently  upon  his  knee. 


153 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


“Rudolph,  can’t  you  laugh  more  often,  and  not  de¬ 
vote  so  much  time  to  tracing  out  the  genealogies  of 
those  silly  people,  and  being  so  tediously  beautiful 
and  good?”  she  asked,  and  with  a  hint  of  serious¬ 
ness.  “Rudolph,  you  don’t  know  how  I  would  adore 
you  if  you  would  rob  a  church  or  cut  somebody’s 
throat  in  an  alley,  and  tell  me  all  about  it  because 
you  knew  I  wouldn’t  betray  you.  You  are  so  infer¬ 
nally  respectable  in  everything  you  do!  How  did 
you  come  to  bully  me  that  day  at  the  Library?  It 
seems  almost  as  if  those  two  were  different  peo¬ 
ple  e  .  .  doesn’t  it,  Rudolph?” 

“My  dear,”  the  colonel  said  whimsically,  “I  am 
afraid  we  are  rather  like  the  shepherdess  and  the 
chimney-sweep  of  the  fable  I  read  you  very  long 
ago.  We  climbed  up  so  far  that  we  could  see  the 
stars,  once,  very  long  ago,  Patricia,  and  we  have 
come  back  to  live  upon  the  parlor  table.  I  suppose 
it  happens  to  all  the  little  china  people.” 

She  took  his  meaning.  Each  was  aware  of  an  odd 
sense  of  intimacy.  “Everything  we  have  to  be  glad 
for  now,  Rudolph,  is  the  rivet  in  grandfather’s  neck. 
It  is  rather  a  fiasco,  isn’t  it?” 

“Eh,  there  are  all  sorts  of  rivets,  Patricia.  And 
the  thing  one  cannot  do  because  one  is  what  one  is, 
need  not  be  necessarily  a  cause  for  grief.” 


154 


XII 


IT  was  excellent  to  see  Jack  Charteris  again,  as 
Colonel  Musgrave  did  within  a  few  days  of  this. 
Musgrave  was  unreasonably  fond  of  the  novelist 
and  frankly  confessed  it  would  be  as  preposterous  to 
connect  Charteris  with  any  of  the  accepted  standards 
of  morality  as  it  would  be  to  judge  an  artesian-well 
from  the  standpoint  of  ethics. 

Anne  was  not  yet  in  Lichfield.  She  had  broken 
the  journey  to  visit  a  maternal  grand-aunt  and  some 
Virginia  cousins,  in  Richmond,  Charteris  explained, 
and  was  to  come  thence  to  Matocton. 

“And  so  you  have  acquired  a  boy  and,  by  my  soul, 
a  very  handsome  wife,  Rudolph  ?” 

“It  is  sufficiently  notorious/’  said  Colonel  Mus¬ 
grave.  “Yes,  we  are  quite  absurdly  happy.”  He 
laughed  and  added:  “Patricia — but  you  don’t  know 
her  droll  way  of  putting  things — says  that  the  only 
rational  complaint  I  can  advance  against  her  is  her 
habit  of  rushing  into  a  hospital  every  month  or  so 
and  having  a  section  or  two  of  her  person  removed 
by  surgeons.  It  worries  me, — only,  of  course,  it  is 

155 


not  the  sort  of  thing  you  can  talk  about.  And,  as 
Patricia  says,  it  is  an  unpleasant  thing  to  realize  that 
your  wife  is  not  leaving  you  through  the  ordinary 
channels  of  death  or  of  type-written  decrees  of  the 
court,  but  only  in  vulgar  fractions,  as  it  were — — ” 

‘‘Please  don’t  be  quite  so  brutal,  Rudolph.  It  is 
not  becoming  in  a  Musgrave  of  Matocton  to  speak 
of  women  in  any  tone  other  than  the  most  honeyed 
accents  of  chivalry.” 

“Oh,  I  was  only  quoting  Patricia,”  the  colonel 
largely  said,  “and — er — Jack,”  he  continued.  “By  the 
way,  Jack,  Clarice  Pendomer  will  be  at  Matoc¬ 
ton—” 

“I  rejoice  in  her  good  luck,”  said  Charteris,  equably. 

“ — and — well!  I  was  wondering — — ?” 

“I  can  assure  you  that  there  will  be  no — trouble. 
That  skeleton  is  safely  locked  in  its  closet,  and  the 
key  to  that  closet  is  missing — more  thanks  to  you. 
You  acted  very  nobly  in  the  whole  affair,  Rudolph.  I 
wish  I  could  do  things  like  that.  As  it  is,  of  course, 
I  shall  always  detest  you  for  having  been  able  to 
do  it.” 

Charteris  said,  thereafter:  “I  shall  always  envy 
you,  though,  Rudolph.  No  other  man  I  know  has 
ever  attained  the  good  old  troubadourish  ideal  of 
domnei — that  love  which  rather  abhors  than  other¬ 
wise  the  notion  of  possessing  its  object.  I  still  be¬ 
lieve  it  was  a  distinct  relief  to  a  certain  military  of¬ 
ficer,  whose  name  we  need  not  mention,  when  Anne 
decided  not  to  marry  you.” 

156 


APPRECIATION 


The  colonel  grinned,  a  trifle  consciously.  “Well, 
Anne  meant  youth,  you  comprehend,  and  all  the  things 
we  then  believed  in,  Jack.  It  would  have  been  de¬ 
cidedly  difficult  to  live  up  to  such  a  contract,  and — ■ 
as  it  were — to  fulfil  every  one  of  the  implied  speci¬ 
fications  !” 

“And  yet” — here  Charteris  flicked  his  cigarette — 
“Anne  ruled  in  the  stead  of  Aline  Van  Orden.  And 
Aline,  in  turn,  had  followed  Clarice  Pendomer.  And 
before  the  coming  of  Clarice  had  Pauline  Romeyne, 
whom  time  has  converted  into  Polly  Ashmeade, 
reigned  in  the  land - ” 

“Don’t  be  an  ass!”  the  colonel  pleaded;  and  then 
observed,  inconsequently :  “I  can’t  somehow  quite  re¬ 
alize  Aline  is  dead.  Lord,  Lord,  the  letters  that  I 
wrote  to  her!  She  sent  them  all  back,  you  know, 
in  genuine  romantic  fashion,  after  we  had  quarreled. 
I  found  those  boyish  ravings  only  the  other  day  in  my 
father’s  desk  at  Matocton,  and  skimmed  them  over.  I 
shall  read  them  through  some  day  and  appropriately 
meditate  over  life’s  mysteries  that  are  too  sad  for 
tears.” 

He  meditated  now. 

“It  wouldn’t  be  quite  equitable,  Jack,”  the  colonel 
summed  it  up,  “if  the  Aline  I  loved — no,  I  don’t  mean 
the  real  woman,  the  one  you  and  all  the  other  peo¬ 
ple  knew,  the  one  that  married  the  enterprising 
brewer  and  died  five  years  ago — were  not  waiting  for 
me  somewhere.  I  can’t  express  just  what  I  mean, 
but  you  will  understand,  I  know - ?” 


157 


“That  heaven  is  necessarily  run  on  a  Mohammedan 
basis?  Why,  of  course,”  said  Mr.  Charteris. 
“Heaven,  as  I  apprehend  it,  is  a  place  where  we  shall 
live  eternally  among  those  ladies  of  old  years  who 
never  condescended  actually  to  inhabit  any  realm 
more  tangible  than  that  of  our  boyish  fancies.  It 
is  the  obvious  definition;  and  I  defy  you  to  evolve 
a  more  enticing  allurement  toward  becoming  a  dea¬ 
con.” 

“You  romancers  are  privileged  to  talk  nonsense 
anywhere,”  the  colonel  estimated,  “and  I  suppose  that 
in  the  Lichfield  you  have  made  famous,  Jack,  you 
have  a  double  right.” 

“Ah,  but  I  never  wrote  a  line  concerning  Lich¬ 
field.  I  only  wrote  about  the  Lichfield  whose  ex¬ 
istence  you  continue  to  believe  in,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  you  are  actually  living  in  the  real  Lichfield,” 
Charteris  returned.  “The  vitality  of  the  legend  is 
wonderful.” 

He  cocked  his  head  to  one  side — an  habitual  ges¬ 
ture  with  Charteris — and  the  colonel  noted,  as  he 
had  often  done  before,  how  extraordinarily  reminis¬ 
cent  Jack  was  of  a  dried-up,  quizzical  black  parrot. 
Said  Charteris: 

“I  love  to  serve  that  legend.  I  love  to  prattle 
of  ‘ole  Marster’  and  ‘ole  Miss/  and  throw  in  a  sprink¬ 
ling  of  ‘mockin’-buds’  and  ‘hants’  and  ‘horg-killing 
time/  and  of  sweeping  animadversions  as  to  all  ‘free 
niggers’ ;  and  to  narrate  how  ‘de  quality  use  ter  cum’ 
* — you  spell  it  c-u-m  because  that  looks  so  convinc- 

158 


APPRECIATION 


ingly  like  dialect — '‘ter  de  gret  hous.’  Those  are  the 
main  ingredients.  And,  as  for  the  unavoidable  love- 
interest - ”  Charteris  paused,  grinned,  and  pleas¬ 

antly  resumed :  “Why,  jes  arter  dat,  suh,  a  hut  Yan¬ 
kee  cap’en,  whar  some  uv  our  folks  done  shoot  in 
de  laig,  wuz  lef  on  de  road  fer  daid — a  quite  notori¬ 
ous  custom  on  the  part  of  all  Northern  armies — un 
Young  Miss  had  him  fotch  up  ter  de  gret  hous,  un 
nuss  im  same’s  he  one  uv  de  fambly,  un  dem  two  jes 
fit  un  argufy  scanlous  un  never  spicion  huccum  dey’s 
in  love  wid  each  othuh  till  de  War’s  ovuh.  And  there 
you  are!  I  need  not  mention  that  during  the  tale’s 
progress  it  is  necessary  to  introduce  at  least  one 
favorable  mention  of  Lincoln,  arrange  a  duel  ‘in  de 
low  grouns’  immediately  after  day-break,  and  have 
the  family  silver  interred  in  the  back  garden,  because 
these  points  will  naturally  suggest  themselves.” 

“Jack,  Jack!”  the  colonel  cried,  “it  is  an  ill  bird 
that  fouls  its  own  nest.” 

“But,  believe  me,  I  don’t  at  heart,”  said  Charteris, 
in  a  queer  earnest  voice.  “There  is  a  sardonic  imp 
inside  me  that  makes  me  jeer  at  the  commoner  tricks 
of  the  trade — and  yet  when  I  am  practising  that  trade, 
when  I  am  writing  of  those  tender-hearted,  brave 
and  gracious  men  and  women,  and  of  those  dear  old 
darkies,  I  very  often  write  with  tears  in  my  eyes.  I 
tell  you  this  with  careful  airiness  because  it  is  true 
and  because  it  would  embarrass  me  so  horribly  if 
you  believed  it.” 

Then  he  was  off  upon  another  tack.  “And  wherein, 

159 


pray,  have  I  harmed  Lichfield  by  imagining  a  dream 
city  situated  half  way  between  Atlantis  and  Avalon 
and  peopled  with  superhuman  persons — and  by  hav¬ 
ing  called  this  city  Lichfield?  The  portrait  did  not 
only  flatter  Lichfield,  it  flattered  human  nature.  So, 
naturally,  it  pleased  everybody.  Yes,  that,  I  take 
it,  is  the  true  secret  of  romance — to  induce  the  mo¬ 
mentary  delusion  that  humanity  is  a  superhuman  race, 
profuse  in  aspiration,  and  prodigal  in  the  exercise 
of  glorious  virtues  and  stupendous  vices.  As  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  fact,  all  human  passions  are  depressingly 
chicken-hearted,  I  find.  Were  it  not  for  the  police 
court  records,  I  would  pessimistically  insist  that  all 
of  us  elect  to  love  one  person  and  to  hate  another 
with  very  much  the  same  enthusiasm  that  we  dis¬ 
play  in  expressing  a  preference  for  rare  roast  beef 
as  compared  with  the  outside  slice.  Oh,  really,  Ru¬ 
dolph,  you  have  no  notion  how  salutary  it  is  to  the 
self-esteem  of  us  romanticists  to  run  across,  even 
nowadays,  an  occasional  breach  of  the  peace.  For 
then  sometimes — when  the  coachman  obligingly  cuts 
the  butler's  throat  in  the  back-alley,  say — we  actually 
presume  to  think  for  a  moment  that  our  profession  is 
almost  as  honest  as  that  of  making  counterfeit 
money.  .  .  .” 

The  colonel  did  not  interrupt  his  brief  pause  of 
meditation.  Then  the  novelist  said : 

“Why,  no;  if  I  were  ever  really  to  attempt  a  tale 
of  Lichfield,  I  would  not  write  a  romance  but  a 
tragedy.  I  think  that  I  would  call  my  tragedy  Fw- 
160 


APPRECIATION 


tility,  for  it  would  mirror  the  life  of  Lichfield  with 
unengaging  candor;  and,  as  a  consequence,  people 
would  complain  that  my  tragedy  lacked  sustained  in¬ 
terest,  and  that  its  participants  were  inconsistent ;  that 
it  had  no  ordered  plot,  no  startling  incidents,  no  high 
endeavors,  and  no  especial  aim ;  and  that  it  was  equally 
deficient  in  all  time-hallowed  provocatives  of  either 
laughter  or  tears.  For  very  few  people  would  under¬ 
stand  that  a  life  such  as  this,  when  rightly  viewed,  is 
the  most  pathetic  tragedy  conceivable.,, 

“Oh,  come,  now,  Jack!  come,  recollect  that  your 
reasoning  powers  are  almost  as  worthy  of  employ¬ 
ment  as  your  rhetorical  abilities!  We  are  not  quite 
so  bad  as  that,  you  know.  We  may  be  a  little  behind 
the  times  in  Lichfield;  we  certainly  let  well  enough 
alone,  and  we  take  things  pretty  much  as  they  come ; 
but  we  meddle  with  nobody,  and,  after  all,  we  don’t 
do  any  especial  harm.” 

“We  don’t  do  anything  whatever  in  especial,  Ru¬ 
dolph.  That  would  be  precisely  the  theme  of  my 
story  of  the  real  Lichfield  if  I  were  ever  bold  enough 
to  write  it.  There  seems  to  be  a  sort  of  blight  upon 
Lichfield.  Oh,  yes!  it  would  be  unfair,  perhaps,  to 
contrast  it  with  the  bigger  Southern  cities,  like  Rich¬ 
mond  and  Atlanta  and  New  Orleans;  but  even  the 
inhabitants  of  smaller  Southern  towns  are  beginning 
to  buy  excursion  tickets,  and  thereby  ascertain  that 
the  twentieth  century  has  really  begun.  Yes,  it  is 
only  in  Lichfield  I  can  detect  the  raw  stuff  of  a  genu¬ 
ine  tragedy;  for,  depend  upon  it,  Rudolph,  the  most 

161 


pathetic  tragedy  in  life  is  to  get  nothing  in  particular 
out  of  it.” 

“But,  for  my  part,  I  don’t  see  what  you  are  driv¬ 
ing  at,”  the  colonel  stoutly  said. 

And  Charteris  only  laughed.  “And  I  hardly  ex¬ 
pected  you  to  do  so,  Rudolph — or  not  yet,  at  least.” 


PART  FIVE 


SOUVENIR 


“I  am  contented  by  remembrances — 

Dreams  of  dead  passions,  wraiths  of  vanished  times, 
Fragments  of  vows,  and  by-ends  of  old  rhymes — 
Flotsam  and  jetsam  tumbling  in  the  seas 
Whereon,  long  since,  put  forth  our  argosies 
Which,  bent  on  traffic  in  the  Isles  of  Love, 

Lie  foundered  somewhere  in  some  firth  thereof, 
Encradled  by  eternal  silences. 

“Thus,  having  come  to  naked  bankruptcy, 

Let  us  part  friends,  as  thrifty  tradesmen  do 
When  common  ventures  fail,  for  it  may  be 
These  battered  oaths  and  rhymes  may  yet  ring  true 
To  some  fair  woman’s  hearing,  so  that  she 
Will  listen  and  think  of  love,  and  I  of  you.” 

F.  Ashcroft  Wheeler.  Revisions. 


I 


WHEN  the  Reliance ,  the  Constitution  and  the 
Columbia  were  holding  trial  races  off  New¬ 
port  to  decide  which  one  of  these  yachts 
should  defend  the  America's  cup;  when  the  tone  of 
the  Japanese  press  as  to  Russia’s  actions  in  Man¬ 
churia  was  beginning  to  grow  ominous;  when  the 
Jews  of  America  were  drafting  a  petition  to  the  Czar; 
and  when  it  was  rumored  that  the  health  of  Pope 
Leo  XIII  was  commencing  to  fail : — at  this  remote 
time,  the  Musgraves  gave  their  first  house-party. 

And  at  this  period  Colonel  Musgrave  noted  and 
admired  the  apparent  unconcern  with  which  John 
Charteris  and  Clarice  Pendomer  encountered  at  Ma- 
tocton.  And  at  this  period  Colonel  Musgrave  noted 
with  approval  the  intimacy  which  was,  obviously, 
flourishing  between  the  little  novelist  and  Patricia. 

Also  Colonel  Musgrave  had  presently  good  reason 
to  lament  a  contretemps,  over  which  he  was  sulking 
when  Mrs.  Pendomer  rustled  to  her  seat  at  the  break¬ 
fast-table,  with  a  shortness  of  breath  that  was  partly 
due  to  the  stairs,  and  in  part  attributable  to  her  youth¬ 
ful  dress,  which  fitted  a  trifle  too  perfectly. 

165 


“Waffles?”  said  Mrs.  Pendomer.  “At  my  age  and 
weight  the  first  is  an  experiment  and  the  fifth  an 
amiable  indiscretion  of  which  I  am  invariably  guilty. 
Sugar,  please.”  She  yawned,  and  reached  a  gener¬ 
ously-proportioned  arm  toward  the  sugar-bowl.  “Yes, 
that  will  do,  Pilkins.” 

Colonel  Musgrave — since  the  remainder  of  his 
house-party  had  already  breakfasted — raised  his  fine 
eyes  toward  the  chandelier,  and  sighed,  as  Pilkins 
demurely  closed  the  dining-room  door. 

Leander  Pilkins — butler  for  a  long  while  now  to  the 
Musgraves  of  Matocton — would  here,  if  space  per¬ 
mitted,  be  the  subject  of  an  encomium.  Leander  Pil¬ 
kins  was  in  Lichfield  considered  to  be,  upon  the  whole, 
the  handsomest  man  whom  Lichfield  had  produced; 
for  this  quadroon’s  skin  was  like  old  ivory,  and  his 
profile  would  have  done  credit  to  an  emperor.  His 
terrapin  is  still  spoken  of  in  Lichfield  as  people  in 
less  favored  localities  speak  of  the  Golden  Age,  and 
his  mayonnaise  (boasts  Lichfield)  would  have  com¬ 
pelled  an  Olympian  to  plead  for  a  second  helping. 
For  the  rest,  his  deportment  in  all  functions  of  but- 
lership  is  best  described  as  super-Chesterfieldian;  and, 
indeed,  he  was  generally  known  to  be  a  byblow  of 
Captain  Beverley  Musgrave’s,  who  in  his  day  was 
Lichfield’s  arbiter  as  touched  the  social  graces.  And 
so,  no  more  of  Pilkins. 

Mrs.  Pendomer  partook  of  chops.  “Is  this  re¬ 
morse,”  she  queried,  “or  a  convivially  induced  re¬ 
quirement  for  bromides?  At  this  unearthly  hour  of 
1 66 


SOUVENIR 


the  morning  it  is  very  often  difficult  to  disentangle 
the  two.” 

“It  is  neither,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave,  and  almost 
snappishly. 

Followed  an  interval  of  silence.  “Really,”  said 
Mrs.  Pendomer,  and  as  with  sympathy,  “one  would 
think  you  had  at  last  been  confronted  with  one  of 
your  thirty-seven  pasts — or  is  it  thirty-eight,  Ru¬ 
dolph?” 

Colonel  Musgrave  frowned  disapprovingly  at  her 
frivolity;  he  swallowed  his  coffee,  and  buttered  a  su¬ 
perfluous  potato.  “H’m!”  said  he;  “then  you  know?” 

“I  know,”  sighed  she,  “that  a  sleeping  past  fre¬ 
quently  suffers  from  insomnia.” 

“And  in  that  case,”  said  he,  darkly,  “it  is  not  the 

i 

only  sufferer.” 

Mrs.  Pendomer  considered  the  attractions  of  a  third 
waffle — a  mellow  blending  of  autumnal  yellows, 
fringed  with  a  crisp  and  irresistible  brown,  that,  for 
the  moment,  put  to  flight  all  dreams  and  visions  of 
slenderness. 

“And  Patricia?”  she  queried,  with  a  mental  hiatus. 

Colonel  Musgrave  flushed. 

“Patricia,”  he  conceded,  with  mingled  dignity  and 
sadness,  “is,  after  all,  still  in  her  twenties - ” 

“Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Pendomer,  with  a  dryness  which 
might  mean  anything  or  nothing;  “she  was  only 
twenty-one  when  she  married  you.” 

“I  mean,”  he  explained,  with  obvious  patience, 
“that  at  her  age  she — not  unnaturally — takes  an  im- 

167 


mature  view  of  things.  Her  unspoiled  purity/'  he 
added,  meditatively,  “and  innocence  and  general  un¬ 
sophistication  are,  of  course,  adorable,  but  I  can  admit 
to  thinking  that  for  a  journey  through  life  they  im¬ 
press  me  as  excess  baggage.” 

“Patricia,”  said  Mrs.  Pendomer,  soothingly,  “has 
ideals.  And  ideals,  like  a  hare-lip  or  a  mission  in 
life,  should  be  pitied  rather  than  condemned,  when 
our  friends  possess  them;  especially,”  she  continued, 
buttering  her  waffle,  “as  so  many  women  have  them 
sandwiched  between  their  last  attack  of  measles  and 
their  first  imported  complexion.  No  one  of  the  three 
is  lasting,  Rudolph.” 

“H’m!”  said  he. 

There  was  another  silence.  The  colonel  desperately 
felt  that  matters  were  not  advancing. 

“H’m!”  said  she,  with  something  of  interrogation 
in  her  voice. 

“See  here,  Clarice,  I  have  known  you - ” 

“You  have  not!”  cried  she,  very  earnestly;  “not  by 
five  years!” 

“Well,  say  for  some  time.  You  are  a  sensible 
woman — * — ” 

“A  man,”  Mrs.  Pendomer  lamented,  parenthetically, 
“never  suspects  a  woman  of  discretion,  until  she  be¬ 
gins  to  lose  her  waist.” 

“ — and .  I  am  sure  that  I  can  rely  upon  your 
womanly  tact,  and  finer  instincts, — and  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know — to  help  me  out  of  a  deuce  of  a 
mess.” 

1 68 


SOUVENIR 


Mrs.  Pendomer  ate  on,  in  an  exceedingly  non¬ 
committal  fashion,  as  he  paused,  inquiringly. 

“She  has  been  reading  some  letters,”  said  he,  at 
length;  “some  letters  that  I  wrote  a  long  time  ago.” 

“In  the  case  of  so  young  a  girl,”  observed  Mrs. 
Pendomer,  with  perfect  comprehension,  “I  should 
have  undoubtedly  recommended  a  judicious  super¬ 
vision  of  her  reading-matter.” 

“She  was  looking  through  an  old  escritoire,”  he 
explained;  “Jack  Charter  is  had  suggested  that  some 
of  my  father's  letters — during  the  War,  you  know — 
might  be  of  value - ” 

He  paused,  for  Mrs.  Pendomer  appeared  on  the 
verge  of  a  question. 

But  she  only  said,  “So  it  was  Mr.  Charteris  who 
suggested  Patricia's  searching  the  desk.  Ah,  yes! 
And  then - ?” 

“And  it  was  years  ago — and  just  the  usual  sort 
of  thing,  though  it  may  have  seemed  from  the  let¬ 
ters — Why,  I  hadn't  given  the  girl  a  thought,”  he 
cried,  in  virtuous  indignation,  “until  Patricia  found 
the  letters — and  read  them!” 

“Naturally,”  she  assented — “yes, — just  as  I  read 
George’s.” 

The  smile  with  which  she  accompanied  this  re¬ 
mark,  suggested  that  both  Mr.  Pendomer's  corre¬ 
spondence  and  home  life  were  at  times  of  an  interest¬ 
ing  nature. 

“I  had  destroyed  the  envelopes  when  she  returned 
them,”  continued  Colonel  Musgrave,  with  morose  con- 

169 


fusion  of  persons.  “Patricia  doesn’t  even  know  who 
the  girl  was — her  name,  somehow,  was  not  men¬ 
tioned.” 

“  ‘Woman  of  my  heart’ — ‘Dearest  girl  in  all  the 
world,’  ”  quoted  Mrs.  Pendomer,  reminiscently,  “and 
suchlike  tender  phrases,  scattered  in  with  a  pepper- 
cruet,  after  the  rough  copy  was  made  in  pencil,  and 
dated  just  ‘Wednesday,’  or  ‘Thursday,’  of  course. 
Ah,  you  were  always  very  careful,  Rudolph,”  she 
sighed;  “and  now  that  makes  it  all  the  worse,  be¬ 
cause — as  far  as  all  the  evidence  goes — these  letters 
may  have  been  returned  yesterday.” 

“Why - !”  Colonel  Musgrave  pulled  up  short, 

hardly  seeing  his  way  clear  through  the  indignant 
periods  on  which  he  had  entered.  “I  declined,”  said 
he,  somewhat  lamely,  “to  discuss  the  matter  with 
her,  in  her  present  excited  and  perfectly  unreasonable 
condition.” 

Mrs.  Pendomer’s  penciled  eyebrows  rose,  and  her 
lips — which  were  quite  as  red  as  there  was  any  neces¬ 
sity  for  their  being — twitched. 

“Hysterics?”  she  asked. 

“Worse!”  groaned  Colonel  Musgrave;  “patient 
resignation  under  unmerited  affliction!” 

He  had  picked  up  a  teaspoon,  and  he  carefully  bal¬ 
anced  it  upon  his  forefinger. 

“There  were  certain  phrases  in  these  letters  which 
were,  somehow,  repeated  in  certain  letters  I  wrote 
to  Patricia  the  summer  we  were  engaged,  and — not  to 
put  too  fine  a  point  upon  it — she  doesn’t  like  it.” 

170 


SOUVENIR 


Mrs.  Pendomer  smiled,  as  though  she  considered 
this  not  improbable;  and  he  continued,  with  growing 
embarrassment  and  indignation  : 

“She  says  there  must  have  been  others’’ — Mrs. 
Pendomer’s  smile  grew  reminiscent — “any  number  of 
others;  that  she  is  only  an  incident  in  my  life.  Er — 
as  you  have  mentioned,  Patricia  has  certain  notions — 
Northern  idiocies  about  the  awfulness  of  a  young  fel¬ 
low’s  sowing  his  wild  oats,  which  you  and  I  know  per¬ 
fectly  well  he  is  going  to  do,  anyhow,  if  he  is  worth  his 
salt.  But  she  doesn’t  know  it,  poor  little  girl.  So  she 
won’t  listen  to  reason,  and  she  won’t  come  downstairs 
— which,”  lamented  Rudolph  Musgrave,  plaintively, 
“is  particularly  awkward  in  a  house-party.” 

He  drummed  his  fingers,  for  a  moment,  on  the 
table. 

“It  is,”  he  summed  up,  “a  combination  of  Ibsen  and 
hysterics,  and  of — er,  rather  declamatory  observa¬ 
tions  concerning  there  being  one  law  for  the  man 
and  another  for  the  woman,  and  Patricia’s  realiza¬ 
tion  of  the  mistake  we  both  made — and  all  that  sort 
of  nonsense,  you  know,  exactly  as  if,  I  give  you  my 
word,  she  were  one  of  those  women  who  want  to 
vote.”  The  colonel,  patently,  considered  that  feminine 
outrageousness  could  go  no  farther.  “And  she  is  tak¬ 
ing  menthol  and  green  tea  and  mustard  plasters  and  I 
don’t  know  what  all,  in  bed,  prior  to — to - ” 

“Taking  leave?”  Mrs.  Pendomer  suggested. 

“Er — that  was  mentioned,  I  believe,”  said  Colonel 
Musgrave.  “But  of  course  she  was  only  talking.” 

171 


Mrs.  Pendomer  looked  about  her;  and,  without, 
the  cleanshaven  lawns  and  trim  box-hedges  were  very 
beautiful  in  the  morning  sunlight;  within,  the  same 
sunlight  sparkled  over  the  heavy  breakfast  service, 
and  gleamed  in  the  high  walnut  panels  of  the  break¬ 
fast-room.  She  viewed  the  comfortable  appoint¬ 
ments  about  her  a  little  wistfully,  for  Mrs.  Pendom- 
er’s  purse  was  not  over-full. 

“Of  course,”  said  she,  as  in  meditation,  “there  was 
the  money.” 

“Yes,”  said  Rudolph  Musgrave,  slowly;  “there  was 
the  money.” 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  drew  himself  erect. 
Here  was  a  moment  he  must  give  its  full  dramatic 
value. 

“Oh,  no,  Clarice,  my  marriage  may  have  been  an 
eminently  sensible  one,  but  I  love  my  wife.  Oh,  be¬ 
lieve  me,  I  love  her  very  tenderly,  poor  little  Pa¬ 
tricia  !  I  have  weathered  some  forty-seven  birthdays ; 
and  I  have  done  much  as  other  men  do,  and  all  that 
— there  have  been  flirtations  and  suchlike,  and — er — 
some  women  have  been  kinder  to  me  than  I  deserved. 
But  I  love  her;  and  there  has  not  been  a  moment 
since  she  came  into  my  life  I  haven’t  loved  her,  and 
been - ”  he  waved  his  hands  now  impotently,  al¬ 

most  theatrically — '“sickened  at  the  thought  of  the 
others.” 

Mrs.  Pendomer’s  foot  tapped  the  floor  whilst  he 
spoke.  When  he  had  made  an  ending,  she  inclined 
her  head  toward  him. 

1 72 


SOUVENIR 


“Thank  you !”  said  Mrs.  Pendomer. 

Colonel  Musgrave  bit  his  lip;  and  he  flushed. 

“That,”  said  he,  hastily,  “was  different.” 

But  the  difference,  whatever  may  have  been  its  na¬ 
ture,  was  seemingly  a  matter  of  unimportance  to  Mrs. 
Pendomer,  who  was  in  meditation.  She  rested  her 
ample  chin  on  a  much-be jeweled  hand  for  a  moment; 
and,  when  Mrs.  Pendomer  raised  her  face,  her  voice 
was  free  from  affectation. 

“You  will  probably  never  understand  that  this  par¬ 
ticular  July  day  is  a  crucial  point  in  your  life.  You 
will  probably  remember  it,  if  you  remember  it  at 
all,  simply  as  that  morning  when  Patricia  found  some 
girl-or-another’s  old  letters,  and  behaved  rather  un¬ 
reasonably  about  them.  It  was  the  merest  trifle,  you 
will  think.  .  .  .  John  Charteris  understands  women 
better  than  you  do,  Rudolph.” 

“I  need  not  pretend  at  this  late  day  to  be  as  clever 
as  Jack,”  the  colonel  said,  in  some  bewilderment. 
“But  why  not  more  succinctly  state  that  the  Escurial 
is  not  a  dromedary,  although  there  are  many  flies  in 
France?  For  what  on  earth  has  Jack  to  do  with 
crucial  points  and  July  mornings?” 

“Why,  I  suppose,  I  only  made  bold  to  introduce 
his  name  for  the  sake  of  an  illustration,  Rudolph. 
For  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  realize,  precisely, 
why  any  woman  did  anything  is  invariably  the  woman 
who  did  it.  ...  Yet  there  comes  in  every  married 
woman’s  existence  that  time  when  she  realizes,  sud¬ 
denly,  that  her  husband  has  a  past  which  might  be 

173 


taken  as,  in  itself,  a  complete  and  rounded  life — 
as  a  life  which  had  run  the  gamut  of  all  ordinary 
human  passions,  and  had  become  familiar  with  all 
ordinary  human  passions  a  dishearteningly  long  while 
before  she  ever  came  into  that  life.  A  woman  never 
realizes  that  of  her  lover,  somehow.  But  to  know 
that  your  husband,  the  father  of  your  child,  has  lived 
for  other  women  a  life  in  which  you  had  no  part, 
and  never  can  have  part! — she  realizes  that,  at  one 
time  or  another,  and — and  it  sickens  her.”  Mrs. 
Pendomer  smiled  as  she  echoed  his  phrase,  but  her 
eyes  were  not  mirthful. 

“Ah,  she  hungers  for  those  dead  years,  Rudolph, 
and,  though  you  devote  your  whole  remaining  life 
to  her,  nothing  can  ever  make  up  for  them;  and  she 
always  hates  those  shadowy  women  who  have  stolen 
them  from  her.  A  woman  never,  at  heart,  forgives 
the  other  women  who  have  loved  her  husband,  even 
though  she  cease  to  care  for  him  herself.  For  she 
remembers — ah,  you  men  forget  so  easily,  Rudolph! 
God  had  not  invented  memory  when  he  created  Adam ; 
it  was  kept  for  the  woman.” 

Then  ensued  a  pause,  during  which  Rudolph  Mus- 
grave  smiled  down  upon  her,  irresolutely;  for  he  ab¬ 
horred  “a  scene,”  as  his  vernacular  phrased  it,  and  to 
him  Clarice’s  present  manner  bordered  upon  both  the 
scenic  and  the  incomprehensible. 

“Ah! — you  women!”  he  temporized. 

There  was  a  glance  from  eyes  whose  luster  time 
and  irregular  living  had  conspired  to  dim. 

174 


SOUVENIR 


“Ah! — you  men!’’  Mrs.  Pendomer  retorted.  “And 
there  we  have  the  tragedy  of  life  in  a  nutshell !” 

Silence  lasted  for  a  while.  The  colonel  was  find¬ 
ing  this  matutinal  talk  discomfortably  opulent  in 
pauses. 

“Rudolph,  and  has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that 
in  marrying  Patricia  you  swindled  her?” 

And  naturally  his  eyebrows  lifted. 

“Because  a  woman  wants  love.” 

“Well,  well!  and  don’t  I  love  Patricia?” 

“I  dare  say  that  you  think  you  do.  Only  you 
have  played  at  loving  so  long  you  are  really  unable 
to  love  anybody  as  a  girl  has  every  right  to  be  loved 
in  her  twenties.  Yes,  Rudolph,  you  are  being  rather 
subtly  punished  for  the  good  times  you  have  had. 
And,  after  all,  the  saddest  punishment  is  something 
that  happens  in  us,  not  something  which  happens  to 
us.” 

“I  wish  you  wouldn’t  laugh,  Qarice — 1 — ” 

“I  wish  I  didn’t  have  to.  For  I  would  get  far  more 
comfort  out  of  crying,  and  I  don’t  dare  to,  because  of 
my  complexion.  It  comes  in  a  round  pasteboard  box 
nowadays,  you  know,  Rudolph,  with  French  mendaci¬ 
ties  all  over  the  top — and  my  eyebrows  come  in  a 
fat  crayon,  and  the  healthful  glow  of  my  lips  comes 
in  a  little  porcelain  tub.” 

Mrs.  Pendomer  was  playing  with  a  teaspoon  now, 
and  a  smile  hovered  about  the  aforementioned  lips. 

“And  yet,  do  you  remember,  Rudolph,”  said  she, 
“that  evening  at  Assequin,  when  I  wore  a  blue  gown, 

175 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


and  they  were  playing  Fleurs  d’ Amour,  and — you 
said - ?” 

“Yes” — there  was  an  effective  little  catch  in  his 
voice — '“you  were  a  wonderful  girl,  Clarice — ‘my  sun¬ 
shine  girl/  I  used  to  call  you.  And  blue  was  always 
your  color;  it  went  with  your  eyes  so  exactly.  And 
those  big  sleeves  they  wore  then — those  tell-tale, 
crushable  sleeves! — they  suited  your  slender  youth¬ 
fulness  so  perfectly!  Ah,  I  remember  it  as  though  it 
were  yesterday!” 

Mrs.  Pendomer  majestically  rose  to  her  feet. 

“It  was  pink!  And  it  was  at  the  Whitebrier  you 
said — what  you  said!  And — and  you  don’t  deserve 
anything  but  what  you  are  getting,”  she  concluded, 
grimly. 

“I — it  was  so  long  ago,”  Rudolph  Musgrave  apol¬ 
ogized,  with  mingled  discomfort  and  vagueness. 

“Yes,”  she  conceded,  rather  sadly;  “it  was  so  long 
— oh,  very  long  ago!  For  we  were  young  then,  and 
we  believed  in  things,  and — and  Jack  Charteris  had 
not  taken  a  fancy  to  me — — ”  She  sighed  and 
drummed  her  fingers  on  the  table.  “But  women  have 
always  helped  and  shielded  you,  haven’t  they,  Ru¬ 
dolph  ?  And  now  I  am  going  to  help  you  too,  for  you 
have  shown  me  the  way.  You  don’t  deserve  it  in  the 
least,  but  I’ll  do  it.” 


176 


II 


THUS  it  shortly  came  about  that  Mrs.  Pendo- 
mer  mounted,  in  meditative  mood,  to  Mrs. 
Musgrave’s  rooms ;  and  that  Mrs.  Pendomer, 
recovering  her  breath,  entered,  without  knocking,  into 
a  gloom  where  cologne  and  menthol  and  the  odor  of 
warm  rubber  contended  for  mastery.  For  Patricia 
had  decided  that  she  was  very  ill  indeed,  and  was  sob¬ 
bing  softly  in  bed. 

Very  calmly,  Mrs.  Pendomer  opened  a  window, 
letting  in  a  flood  of  fresh  air  and  sunshine;  very 
calmly,  she  drew  a  chair — a  substantial  arm-chair 
— to  the  bedside,  and,  very  calmly,  she  began : 

“My  dear,  Rudolph  has  told  me  of  this  ridiculous 
affair,  and — oh,  you  equally  ridiculous  girl !,? 

She  removed,  with  deft  fingers,  a  damp  and  cling- 
^  ing  bandage  from  about  Patricia’s  head,  and  patted 
the  back  of  Patricia’s  hand,  placidly.  Patricia  was 
by  this  time  sitting  erect  in  bed,  and  her  coppery 
hair  was  thick  about  her  face,  which  was  colorless; 
and,  altogether,  she  was  very  rigid  and  very  indig¬ 
nant  and  very  pretty,  and  very,  very  young. 


1 77 


“How  dare  he  tell  you — or  anybody  else!”  she 
cried. 

“We  are  such  old  friends,  remember,”  Mrs.  Pen- 
domer  pleaded,  and  rearranged  the  pillows,  soothingly, 
about  her  hostess;  “and  I  want  to  talk  to  you  quietly 
and  sensibly.” 

Patricia  sank  back  among  the  pillows,  and  inhaled 
the  fresh  air,  which,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  found 
agreeable.  “I — somehow,  I  don’t  feel  very  sensible,” 
she  murmured,  half  sulky  and  half  shame- faced. 

Mrs.  Pendomer  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then 
plunged  into  the  heart  of  things.  “You  are  a  woman, 
dear,”  she  said,  gently,  “though  heaven  knows  it  must 
have  been  only  yesterday  you  were  playing  about  the 
nursery — and  one  of  the  facts  we  women  must  face, 
eventually,  is  that  man  is  a  polygamous  animal.  It 
is  unfortunate,  perhaps,  but  it  is  true.  Civilization 
may  veneer  the  fact,  but  nothing  will  ever  override  it, 
not  even  in  these  new  horseless  carriages.  A  man  may 
give  his  wife  the  best  that  is  in  him — his  love,  his  trust, 
his  life’s  work — but  it  is  only  the  best  there  is  left. 
We  give  our  hearts;  men  dole  out  theirs,  as  people 
feed  bread  to  birds,  with  a  crumb  for  everyone.  His 
wife  has  the  remnant.  And  the  best  we  women  can 
do  is  to  remember  we  are  credibly  informed  that 
half  a  loaf  is  preferable  to  no  bread  at  all.” 

Her  face  sobered,  and  she  added,  pensively:  “We 
might  contrive  a  better  universe,  we  sister  women,  but 
this  is  not  permitted  us.  So  we  must  take  it  as  it  is.” 

Patricia  stirred,  as  talking  died  away.  “I  don’t 
i78 


SOUVENIR 


believe  it,”  said  she;  and  she  added,  with  emphasis: 
“And,  anyhow,  I  hate  that  nasty  trollop!” 

“Ah,  but  you  do  believe  it.”  Mrs.  Pendomer’s 
voice  was  insistent.  “You  knew  it  years  before  you 
went  into  long  frocks.  That  knowledge  is,  I  suppose, 
a  legacy  from  our  mothers.” 

Patricia  frowned,  petulantly,  and  then  burst  into 
choking  sobs.  “Oh !”  she  cried,  “it’s  damnable !  Some 
other  woman  has  had  what  I  can  never  have.  And  I 
wanted  it  so! — that  first  love  that  means  everything 
— the  love  he  gave  her  when  I  was  only  a  messy  lit¬ 
tle  girl,  with  pig-tails  and  too  many  hands  and  feet! 
Oh,  that — that  hell-cat!  She’s  had  everything!” 

There  was  an  interval,  during  which  Mrs.  Pendo- 
mer  smiled  crookedly,  and  Patricia  continued  to  sob, 
although  at  lengthening  intervals.  Then,  Mrs.  Pen- 
domer  lifted  the  packet  of  letters  lying  on  the  bed,  and 
cleared  her  throat. 

“H’m!”  said  she;  “so  this  is  what  caused  all  the 
trouble?  You  don’t  mind?” 

And,  considering  silence  as  equivalent  to  acqui- 

« 

escence,  she  drew  out  a  letter  at  hazard,  and  read 
aloud : 

“  ‘Just  a  line,  woman  of  all  the  world,  to  tell  you  .  .  . 
but  what  have  I  to  tell  you,  after  all?  Only  the  old,  old 
message,  so  often  told  that  it  seems  scarcely  worth  while 
to  bother  the  postman  about  it.  Just  three  words  that 
innumerable  dead  lips  have  whispered,  while  life  was 
yet  good  and  old  people  were  unreasonable  and  skies 
were  blue — three  words  that  our  unborn  children’s  chil- 

179 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


dren  will  whisper  to  one  another  when  we  too  have 
gone  to  help  the  grasses  in  their  growing  or  to  nourish 
the  victorious,  swaying  hosts  of  some  field  of  daffodils. 
Just  three  words — that  is  my  message  to  you,  my  lady. 
.  .  .  Ah,  it  is  weary  waiting  for  a  sight  of  your  dear 
face  through  these  long  days  that  are  so  much  alike  and 
all  so  empty  and  colorless !  My  heart  grows  hungry  as 
I  think  of  your  great,  green  eyes  and  of  the  mouth  that 
is  like  a  little  wound.  I  want  you  so,  O  dearest  girl  in 
all  the  world !  I  want  you.  .  .  .  Ah,  time  travels  very 
slowly  that  brings  you  back  to  me,  and,  meanwhile,  I  can 
but  dream  of  you  and  send  you  impotent  scrawls  that 
only  vex  me  with  their  futility.  For  my  desire  of 
you — •’ 


“The  remainder,”  said  Mrs.  Pendomer,  clearing  her 
throat  once  more,  “appears  to  consist  of  insanity  and 
heretical  sentiments,  in  about  equal  proportions,  all 
written  at  the  top  of  a  boy’s  breaking  voice.  It  isn’t 
Colonel  Musgrave’s  voice — quite — is  it?” 

During  the  reading,  Patricia,  leaning  on  one  elbow, 
had  regarded  her  companion  with  wide  eyes  and 
flushed  cheeks.  “Now,  you  see!”  she  cried  indig¬ 
nantly;  “he  loved  her!  He  was  simply  crazy  about 
her.” 

“Why,  yes.”  Mrs.  Pendomer  replaced  the  letter, 
carefully,  almost  caressingly,  among  its  companions. 
“My  dear,  it  was  years  ago.  I  think  time  has  by  this 
wreaked  a  vengeance  far  more  bitter  than  you  could 
ever  plan  on  the  woman  who,  after  all,  never  thought 
to  wrong  you.  For  the  bitterest  of  all  bitter  things 
180 


SOUVENIR 


to  a  woman — to  some  women,  at  least — is  to  grow 
old” 

She  sighed,  and  her  well-manicured  fingers  fretted 
for  a  moment  with  the  counterpane. 

“Ah,  who  will  write  the  tragedy  of  us  women  who 
were  'famous  Southern  beauties’  once?  We  were 
queens  of  men  while  our  youth  lasted,  and  diarists 
still  prattle  charmingly  concerning  us.  But  nothing 
was  expected  of  us  save  to  be  beautiful  and  to  con¬ 
descend  to  be  made  much  of,  and  that  is  our  tragedy. 
For  very  few  things,  my  dear,  are  more  pitiable  than 
the  middle-age  of  the  pitiful  butterfly  woman,  whose 
mind  cannot — cannot,  because  of  its  very  nature — - 
reach  to  anything  higher!  Middle-age  strips  her  of 
everything — the  admiration,  the  flattery,  the  shallow 
merriment — all  the  little  things  that  her  little  mind 
longs  for — and  other  women  take  her  place,  in  spite 
of  her  futile,  pitiful  efforts  to  remain  young.  And 
the  world  goes  on  as  before,  and  there  is  a  whisper¬ 
ing  in  the  moonlit  garden,  and  young  people  steal 
off  for  wholly  superfluous  glasses  of  water,  and  the 
men  give  her  duty  dances,  and  she  is  old — ah,  so  old ! 
* — under  the  rouge  and  inane  smiles  and  dainty  frip¬ 
peries  that  caricature  her  lost  youth!  No,  my  dear, 
you  needn’t  envy  this  woman!  Pity  her,  my  dear!” 
pleaded  Clarice  Pendomer,  and  with  a  note  of  earnest¬ 
ness  in  her  voice. 

“Such  a  woman,”  said  Patricia,  with  distinctness, 
“deserves  no  pity.” 

“Well,”  Mrs.  Pendomer  conceded,  drily,  “she 

iBi 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


doesn’t  get  it.  Probably,  because  she  always  grows 
fat,  from  sheer  lack  of  will-power  to  resist  sloth  and 
gluttony — the  only  agreeable  vices  left  her;  and  by 
no  stretch  of  the  imagination  can  a  fat  woman  be 
converted  into  either  a  pleasing  or  heroic  figure.” 

Mrs.  Pendomer  paused  for  a  breathing-space,  and 
smiled,  though  not  very  pleasantly. 

“It  is,  doubtless,”  said  she,  “a  sight  for  gods — and 
quite  certainly  for  men — to  laugh  at,  this  silly  woman 
striving  to  regain  a  vanished  frugality  of  waist.  Yes, 
I  suppose  it  is  amusing — but  it  is  also  pitiful.  And 
it  is  more  pitiful  still  if  she  has  ever  loved  a  man 
in  the  unreasoning  way  these  shallow  women  some¬ 
times  do.  Men  age  so  slowly;  the  men  a  girl  first 
knows  are  young  long  after  she  has  reached  middle- 
age — yes,  they  go  on  dancing  cotillions  and  talking 
nonsense  in  the  garden,  long  after  she  has  taken  to 
common-sense  shoes.  And  the  man  is  still  young 
■ — and  he  cares  for  some  other  woman,  who  is  young 
and  has  all  that  she  has  lost — and  it  seems  so  un¬ 
fair!”  said  Mrs.  Pendomer. 

Patricia  regarded  her  for  a  moment.  The  pur¬ 
ple  eyes  were  alert,  their  glance  was  hard.  “You 
seem  to  know  all  about  this  woman,”  Patricia  began, 
in  a  level  voice.  “I  have  heard,  of  course,  what 
everyone  in  Lichfield  whispers  about  you  and  Rudolph. 
I  have  even  teased  Rudolph  about  it,  but  until  to¬ 
day  I  had  believed  it  was  a  lie.” 

“It  is  often  a  mistake  to  indulge  in  uncommon 
opinions,”  said  Mrs.  Pendomer.  “You  get  more  fun 
182 


SOUVENIR 


and  interest  out  of  it,  I  don’t  deny,  but  the  bill,  my 
dear,  is  unconscionable.” 

“So!  you  confess  it!” 

“My  dear,  and  who  am  I  to  stand  aside  like  a 
coward  and  see  you  make  a  mountain  of  this  boy- 
and-girl  affair — an  affair  which  Rudolph  and  I  had 
practically  forgotten — oh,  years  ago! — until  to-day? 
Why — why,  you  cant  be  jealous  of  me!”  Mrs.  Pen- 
domer  concluded,  half-mockingly. 

Patricia  regarded  her  with  deliberation. 

In  the  windy  sunlight,  Mrs.  Pendomer  was  a  well- 
preserved  woman,  but,  unmistakably,  preserved ;  more¬ 
over,  there  was  a  great  deal  of  her,  and  her  nose 
was  in  need  of  a  judicious  application  of  powder, 
of  which  there  was  a  superfluity  behind  her  ears. 
Was  this  the  siren  Patricia  had  dreaded?  Patricia 
clearly  perceived  that,  whatever  had  been  her  hus¬ 
band’s  relations  with  this  woman,  he  had  been  mani¬ 
festly  entrapped  into  the  imbroglio — a  victim  to  Mrs. 
Pendomer’s  inordinate  love  of  attention,  which  was, 
indeed,  tolerably  notorious ;  and  Patricia’s  anger 
against  Rudolph  Musgrave  gave  way  to  a  rather  con¬ 
temptuous  pity  and  a  half-maternal  remorse  for  not 
having  taken  better  care  of  him. 

“No,”  answered  Mrs.  Pendomer,  to  her  unspoken 
thought;  “no  woman  could  be  seriously  jealous  of 
me.  Yes,  I  dare  say,  I  am  passee  and  vain  and  frivo¬ 
lous  and — harmless.  But,”  she  added,  meditatively, 
“you  hate  me,  just  the  same.” 

“My  dear  Mrs.  Pendomer - ”  Patricia  began, 

i83 


with  cool  courtesy;  then  hesitated.  “Yes,”  she  con¬ 
ceded;  “I  dare  say,  it  is  unreasonable — but  I  do  hate 
you  like  the  very  old  Nick.” 

“Why,  then,”  spoke  Mrs.  Pendomer,  with  cheer¬ 
fulness,  “everything  is  as  it  should  be.”  She  rose 
and  smiled.  “I  am  sorry  to  say  I  must  be  leaving 
Matocton  to-day;  the  Ullwethers  are  very  pressing, 
and  I  really  don’t  know  how  to  get  out  of  paying 
them  a  visit — * — ” 

“So  sorry  to  lose  you,”  cooed  Patricia;  “but,  of 
course,  you  know  best.  I  believe  some  very  good  peo¬ 
ple  are  visiting  the  Ullwethers  nowadays?”  She  ex¬ 
tended  the  letters,  blandly.  “May  I  restore  your 
property?”  she  queried,  with  utmost  gentleness. 

“Thanks !”  Clarice  Pendomer  took  them,  and 
kissed  her  hostess,  not  without  tenderness,  on  the 
brow.  “My  dear,  be  kind  to  Rudolph.  He — he  is 
rather  an  attractive  man,  you  know, — and  other 
women  are  kind  to  him.  We  of  Lichfield  have  always 
said  that  he  and  Jack  Charteris  were  the  most  dan¬ 
gerous  men  that  even  Lichfield  has  ever  pro¬ 
duced - ” 

“Why,  do  people  really  find  Mr.  Charteris  particu¬ 
larly  attractive?”  Patricia  demanded,  so  quickly  and 
so  innocently  that  Mrs.  Pendomer  could  not  deny 
herself  the  glance  of  a  charlatan  who  applauds  his  fel¬ 
low’s  legerdemain. 

And  Patricia  colored. 

“Oh,  well — ♦ — d  You  know  how  Lichfield  gossips,” 
said  Mrs.  Pendomer. 

184 


Ill 


COLONEL  MUSGRAVE  had  smoked  a  pre¬ 
posterous  number  of  unsatisfying  cigarettes 
on  the  big  front  porch  of  Matocton  whilst 
Mrs.  Pendomer  was  absent  on  her  mission;  and  on 
her  return,  flushed  and  triumphant,  he  rose  in  elo¬ 
quent  silence. 

“I’ve  done  it,  Rudolph/’  said  Mrs.  Pendomer. 
“Done  what?”  he  queried,  blankly. 

“Restored  what  my  incomprehensible  lawyers  call 
the  status  quo;  achieved  peace  with  honor;  carried 
off  the  spoils  of  war;  and — in  short — arranged  every¬ 
thing,”  answered  Mrs.  Pendomer,  and  sank  into  a 
rustic  chair,  which  creaked  admonishingly.  “And  all,” 
she  added,  bringing  a  fan  into  play,  “without  a  single 
falsehood.  I  am  not  to  blame  if  Patricia  has  jumped 
at  the  conclusion  that  these  letters  were  written  to 
me.” 

“My  word !”  said  Rudolph  Musgrave,  “your  meth¬ 
ods  of  restoring  domestic  peace  to  a  distracted  house¬ 
hold  are,  to  say  the  least,  original!”  He  seated  him¬ 
self,  and  lighted  another  cigarette. 

185 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


“Oh,  well,  Patricia  is  not  deaf,  you  know,  and 
she  has  lived  in  Lichfield  quite  a  while.”  Mrs.  Pen- 
domer  said  abruptly,  “I  have  half  a  mind  to  tell  you 
some  of  the  things  I  know  about  Aline  Van  Orden.” 

“Please  don’t,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave,  “for  I 
would  inevitably  beard  you  on  my  own  porch  and 
smite  you  to  the  door-mat.  And  I  am  hardly  young 
enough  for  such  adventures.” 

“And  poor  Aline  is  dead!  And  the  rest  of  us  are 
middle-aged  now,  Rudolph,  and  we  go  in  to  dinner 
with  the  veterans  who  call  us  ‘Madam,’  and  we  are 
prominent  in  charitable  enterprises,  .  .  .  But  there 
was  a  time  when  we  were  not  exactly  hideous  in  ap¬ 
pearance,  and  men  did  many  mad  things  for  our  sakes, 
and  we  never  lose  the  memory  of  that  time.  Pleas¬ 
ant  memories  are  among  the  many  privileges  of 
women.  Yes,”  added  Mrs.  Pendomer,  meditatively, 
“we  derive  much  the  same  pleasure  from  them  a  crip¬ 
ple  does  from  rearranging  the  athletic  medals  he  once 
won,  or  a  starving  man  from  thinking  of  the  many 
excellent  dinners  he  has  eaten;  but  we  can’t  and  we 
wouldn’t  part  with  them,  nevertheless.” 

Rudolph  Musgrave,  however,  had  not  honored  her 
with  much  attention,  and  was  puzzling  over  the  more 
or  less  incomprehensible  situation;  and,  perceiving 
this,  she  ran  on,  after  a  little: 

“Oh,  it  worked — it  worked  beautifully!  You  see, 
she  would  always  have  been  very  jealous  of  that  other 
woman;  but  with  me  it  is  different.  She  has  always 
known  that  scandalous  story  about  you  and  me.  And 
1 86 


SOUVENIR 


she  has  always  known  me  as  I  am — a  frivolous  and — 
say,  corpulent,  for  it  is  a  more  dignified  word — and 
generally  unattractive  chaperon;  and  she  can’t  think 
of  me  as  ever  having  been  anything  else.  Young 
people  never  really  believe  in  their  elders’  youth, 
Rudolph ;  at  heart,  they  think  we  came  into  the  world 
with  crow’s-feet  and  pepper-and-salt  hair,  all  complete. 
So,  she  is  only  sorry  for  you  now — rather  as  a  mother 
would  be  for  a  naughty  child;  as  for  me,  she  isn’t 
jealous — but,”  sighed  Mrs.  Pendomer,  “she  isn’t  over- 
fond  of  me.” 

Colonel  Musgrave  rose  to  his  feet.  “It  isn’t  fair,” 
said  he;  “the  letters  were  distinctly  compromising. 
It  isn’t  fair  you  should  shoulder  the  blame  for  a 
woman  who  was  nothing  to  you.  It  isn’t  fair  you 
should  be  placed  in  such  a  false  position.” 

“What  matter?”  pleaded  Mrs.  Pendomer.  “The 
letters  are  mine  to  burn,  if  I  choose.  I  have  read 
one  of  them,  by  the  way,  and  it  is  almost  word  for 
word  a  letter  you  wrote  me  a  good  twenty  years 
ago.  And  you  re-hashed  it  for  Patricia’s  benefit  too, 
it  seems!  You  ought  to  get  a  mimeograph.  Oh, 
very  well!  It  doesn’t  matter  now,  for  Patricia  will 
say  nothing — or  not  at  least  to  you,”  she  added. 

“Still — — ”  he  began. 

“Ah,  Rudolph,  if  I  want  to  do  a  foolish  thing,  why 
won’t  you  let  me  ?  What  else  is  a  woman  for?  They 
are  always  doing  foolish  things.  I  have  known  a 
woman  to  throw  a  man  over,  because  she  had  seen 
him  without  a  collar  ;  and  I  have  known  another  ac- 

187 


tually  to  marry  a  man,  because  she  happened  to  be  in 
love  with  him.  I  have  known  a  woman  to  go  on 
wearing  pink  organdie  after  she  has  passed  forty,  and 
I  have  known  a  woman  to  go  on  caring  for  a  man 
who,  she  knew,  wasn’t  worth  caring  for,  long  after  he 
had  forgotten.  We  are  not  brave  and  sensible,  like  you 
men.  So  why  not  let  me  be  foolish,  if  I  want  to  be?” 

“If,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave  in  some  perplexity,  “I 
understand  one  word  of  this  farrago,  I  will  be — quali¬ 
fied  in  various  ways.” 

“But  you  don’t  have  to  understand,”  she  pleaded. 

“You  mean — * — ?”  he  asked. 

“I  mean  that  I  was  always  fond  of  Aline,  any¬ 
how.” 

“Nonsense!”  And  he  was  conscious,  with  vexa¬ 
tion,  that  he  had  undeniably  flushed. 

“I  mean,  then,  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  understand. 
Everything  is  as  near  what  it  should  be  as  is  possible 
while  Patricia  is  seeing  so  much  of — we  will  call  it 
the  artistic  temperament.”  Mrs.  Pendomer  shrugged. 
“But  if  I  went  on  in  that  line  you  would  believe  I 
was  jealous.  And  heaven  knows  I  am  not  the  least 
bit  so — with  the  unavoidable  qualification  that,  being 
a  woman,  I  can’t  help  rising  superior  to  common- 
sense.” 

Pie  said,  “You  mean  Jack  Charteris - ?  But 

what  on  earth  has  he  to  do  with  these  letters  ?” 

“I  don’t  mean  any  proper  names  at  all.  I  simply 
mean  you  are  not  to  undo  my  work.  It  would  only 
signify  trouble  and  dissatisfaction  and  giving  up  all 
1 88 


SOUVENIR 


this” — she  waved  her  hand  lightly  toward  the  lawns 
of  Matocton, — “and  it  would  mean  our  giving  you 
up,  for,  you  know,  you  haven’t  any  money  of  your 
own,  Rudolph.  Ah,  Rudolph,  we  can’t  give  you  up! 
We  need  you  to  lead  our  Lichfield  germans,  and  to 
tell  us  naughty  little  stories,  and  keep  us  amused.  So 
please  be  sensible,  Rudolph.” 

“Permit  me  to  point  out  I  firmly  believe  that  silence 
is  the  perfectest  herald  of  joy,”  observed  Colonel 
Musgrave.  “Only  I  do  not  understand  why  you 
should  have  dragged  John  Charteris’s  name  into  this 
ludicrous  affair - ” 

“You  really  do  not  understand - ?” 

But  Colonel  Musgrave’s  handsome  face  declared 
very  plainly  that  he  did  not. 

“Well,”  Mrs.  Pendomer  reflected,  “I  dare  say  it  is 
best,  upon  the  whole,  you  shouldn’t.  And  now  you 
must  excuse  me,  for  I  am  leaving  for  the  Ullwethers’ 
to-day,  and  I  shan’t  ever  be  invited  to  Matocton  again, 
and  I  must  tell  my  maid  to  pack  up.  She  is  a  little 
fool  and  it  will  break  her  heart  to  be  leaving  Pilkins. 
All  human  beings  are  tediously  alike.  But,  allow¬ 
ing  ample  time  for  her  to  dispose  of  my  best  lingerie 
and  of  her  unavoidable  lamentations,  I  ought  to  make 
the  six- forty-five.  I  have  noticed  that  one  usually 
does — somehow,”  said  Mrs.  Pendomer,  and  seemed  to 
smack  of  allegories. 

And  yet  it  may  have  been  because  she  knew — as 
who  knew  better? — something  of  that  mischief’s  na¬ 
ture  which  was  now  afoot. 


189 


IV 


THE  colonel  burned  the  malefic  letters  that 
afternoon.  Indeed,  the  episode  set  him  to 
ransacking  the  desk  in  which  Patricia  had 
found  them — a  desk  which,  as  you  have  heard,  was 
heaped  with  the  miscellaneous  correspondence  of  the 
colonel’s  father  dating  back  a  half-century  and  more. 

Much  curious  matter  the  colonel  discovered  there, 
for  “Wild  Will”  Musgrave’s  had  been  a  full-blooded 
career.  And  over  one  packet  of  letters,  in  particular, 
the  colonel  sat  for  a  long  while  with  an  unwontedly 
troubled  face. 


PART  SIX 


BYWAYS 


“Cry  Kismet!  and  take  heart.  Eros  is  gone, 

Nor  may  we  follow  to  that  loftier  air 
Olympians  breathe.  Take  heart,  and  enter  where 
A  lighter  Love,  vine-crowned,  laughs  i’  the  sun, 
Oblivious  of  tangled  webs  ill-spun 
By  ancient  wearied  weavers,  for  it  may  be 
His  guidance  leads  to  lovers  of  such  as  we 
And  hearts  so  credulous  as  to  be  won. 

“Cry  Kismet!  Put  away  vain  memories 
Of  all  old  sorrows  and  of  all  old  joys, 

And  learn  that  life  is  never  quite  amiss 
So  long  as  unreflective  girls  and  boys 
Remember  that  young  lips  were  meant  to  kiss, 
And  hold  that  laughter  is  a  seemly  noise.” 

Paul  Vanderhoffen.  Egeria  Answers. 


I 


PATRICIA  sat  in  the  great  maple-grove  that 
stands  behind  Matocton,  and  pondered  over  a 
note  from  her  husband,  who  was  in  Lich¬ 
field  superintending  the  appearance  of  the  July  num¬ 
ber  of  the  Lichfield  Historical  Association's  Quar¬ 
terly  Magazine.  Mr.  Charteris  lay  at  her  feet,  glanc¬ 
ing  rapidly  over  a  lengthy  letter,  which  was  from  his 
wife,  in  Richmond. 

The  morning  mail  was  just  in,  and  Patricia  had 
despatched  Charteris  for  her  letters,  on  the  plea  that 
the  woods  were  too  beautiful  to  leave,  and  that  Ma¬ 
tocton,  in  the  unsettled  state  which  marks  the  end 
of  the  week  in  a  house-party,  was  intolerable. 

She,  undoubtedly,  was  partial  to  the  grove,  having 
spent  the  last  ten  mornings  there.  Mr.  Charteris  had 
overrated  her  modest  literary  abilities  so  far  as  to 
ask  her  advice  in  certain  details  of  his  new  book, 
which  was  to  appear  in  the  autumn,  and  they  had 
found  a  vernal  solitude,  besides  being  extremely  pic¬ 
turesque,  to  be  conducive  to  the  forming  of  really 
matured  opinions.  Moreover,  she  was  assured  that 

193 


none  of  the  members  of  the  house-party  would  mis¬ 
understand  her  motives;  people  were  so  much  less 
censorious  in  the  country;  there  was  something  in  the 
pastoral  purity  of  Nature,  seen  face  to  face,  which 
brought  out  one’s  noblest  instincts,  and  put  an  end 
to  all  horrid  gossip  and  scandal-mongering. 

Didn’t  Mrs.  Barry-Smith  think  so  ?  And  what  was 
her  real  opinion  of  that  rumor  about  the  Hardresses, 
and  was  the  woman  as  bad  as  people  said  she  was? 
Thus  had  Patricia  spoken  in  the  privacy  of  her  cham¬ 
ber,  at  that  hour  when  ladies  do  up  their  hair  for 
the  night,  and  discourse  of  mysteries.  It  is  at  this 
time  they  are  said  to  babble  out  their  hearts  to  one 
another;  and  so,  beyond  doubt,  this  must  have  been 
the  real  state  of  the  case. 

As  Patricia  admitted,  she  had  given  up  bridge  and 
taken  to  literature  only  during  the  past  year.  She 
might  more  honestly  have  said  within  the  last  two 
weeks.  In  any  event,  she  now  conversed  of  authors 
with  a  fitful  persistence  like  that  of  an  ill-regulated 
machine.  Her  comments  were  delightfully  frank  and 
original,  as  she  had  an  unusually  good  memory.  Of 
two  books  she  was  apt  to  prefer  the  one  with  the 
wider  margin,  and  she  was  becoming  sufficiently  fa-** 
miliar  with  a  number  of  poets  to  quote  them  inac¬ 
curately. 

We  have  all  seen  John  Charter is’s  portraits,  and 
most  of  us  have  read  his  books — or  at  least,  the 
volume  entitled  In  Old  Lichfield ,  which  caused  the 
Lichfield  Courier-Herald  to  apostrophize  its  author  as 
194 


BYWAYS 


a  “Child  of  Genius!  whose  ardent  soul  has  sounded 
the  mysteries  of  life,  whose  inner  vision  sweeps  over 
ever  widening  fields  of  thought,  and  whose  chiseled 
phrases  continue  patriotically  to  perpetuate  the  beauty 
of  Lichfield’s  past.”  But  for  present  purposes  it  is 
sufficient  to  say  that  this  jewelsmith  of  words  was 
slight  and  dark  and  hook-nosed,  and  that  his  hair  was 
thin,  and  that  he  was  not  ill-favored.  It  may  be  of  in¬ 
terest  to  his  admirers — a  growing  cult — to  add  that  his 
reason  for  wearing  a  mustache  in  a  period  of  clean¬ 
shaven  faces  was  that,  without  it,  his  mouth  was  not 
pleasant  to  look  upon. 

“Heigho!”  Patricia  said,  at  length,  with  a  little 
laugh;  “it  is  very  strange  that  both  of  our  encum¬ 
brances  should  arrive  on  the  same  day!” 

“It  is  unfortunate,”  Mr.  Charteris  admitted,  lazily; 
“but  the  blessed  state  of  matrimony  is  liable  to  these 
mishaps.  Let  us  be  thankful  that  my  wife’s  whim  to 
visit  her  aunt  has  given  us,  at  least,  two  perfect, 
golden  weeks.  Husbands  are  like  bad  pennies;  and 
wives  resemble  the  cat  whose  adventures  have  been 
commemorated  by  one  of  our  really  popular  poets. 
They  always  come  back.” 

Patricia  communed  with  herself,  and  to  Charteris 
seemed,  as  she  sat  in  the  chequered  sunlight,  far  more 
desirable  than  a  married  woman  has  any  right  to  be. 

“I  wish - ”  she  began,  slowly.  “Oh,  but,  you 

know,  it  was  positively  criminal  negligence  not  to 
have  included  a  dozen  fairies  among  my  sponsors.” 

“I  too  have  desiderated  this  sensible  precaution,” 

195 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


said  Charteris,  and  laughed  his  utter  comprehension. 
“But,  after  all,”  he  said,  and  snapped  his  fingers  gaily, 
“we  still  have  twenty-four  hours,  Patricia!  Let  us 
forget  the  crudities  of  life,  and  say  foolish  things 
to  each  other.  For  I  am  pastorally  inclined  this  morn¬ 
ing,  Patricia;  I  wish  to  lie  at  your  feet  and  pipe 
amorous  ditties  upon  an  oaten  reed.  Have  you  such 
an  article  about  you,  Patricia?” 

He  drew  a  key-ring  from  his  pocket,  and  pon¬ 
dered  over  it. 

0 

“Or  would  you  prefer  that  I  whistle  into  the  open¬ 
ing  of  this  door-key,  to  the  effect  that  we  must  gather 
our  rose-buds  while  we  may,  for  Time  is  still  a-flying, 
fa-la,  and  that  a  drear  old  age,  not  to  mention  our 
spouses,  will  soon  descend  upon  us,  fa-la-di-leero?  A 
door-key  is  not  Arcadian,  Patricia,  but  it  makes  a  very 
creditable  noise.” 

“Don’t  be  foolish,  mon  ami!”  she  protested,  with 
an  indulgent  smile.  “I  am  unhappy.” 

“Unhappy  that  I  have  chanced  to  fall  in  love  with 
you,  Patricia?  It  is  an  accident  which  might  befall 
any  really  intelligent  person.” 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  ruefully. 

“I  have  done  wrong  to  let  you  talk  to  me  as  you 
have  done  of  late.  I — oh,  Jack,  I  am  afraid!” 

Mr.  Charteris  meditated.  Somewhere  in  a  neigh¬ 
boring  thicket  a  bird  trilled  out  his  song — a  con¬ 
tented,  half-hushed  song  that  called  his  mate  to  wit¬ 
ness  how  infinitely  blest  above  all  other  birds  was 
he.  Mr.  Charteris  heard  him  to  the  end,  and  lan- 
196 


BYWAYS 


guidly  made  as  to  applaud ;  then  Mr.  Charteris  raised 
his  eyebrows. 

“Of  your  husband,  Patricia?”  he  queried. 

“I — Rudolph  doesn’t  bother  about  me  nowadays 
sufficiently  to — notice  anything.” 

Mr.  Charteris  smiled.  “Of  my  wife,  Patricia?” 

“Good  gracious,  no!  I  have  not  the  least  doubt 
you  will  explain  matters  satisfactorily  to  your  wife, 
for  I  have  always  heard  that  practise  makes  per¬ 
fect.” 

Mr.  Charteris  laughed — a  low  and  very  musical 
laugh. 

“Of  me,  then,  Patricia?” 

“I — I  think  it  is  rather  of  myself  I  am  afraid.  Oh, 
I  hate  you  when  you  smile  like  that!  You  have  evil 
eyes,  Jack!  Stop  it!  Quit  hounding  me  with  your 
illicit  fascinations.”  The  hand  she  had  raised  in 
threatening  fashion  fell  back  into  her  lap,  and  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders  once  more.  “My  nerves  are 
somewhat  upset  by  the  approaching  prospect  of  con¬ 
nubial  felicity,  I  suppose.  Really,  though,  mon  ami, 
your  conceit  is  appalling.” 

Charteris  gave  vent  to  a  chuckle,  and  raised  the 
door-key  to  his  lips. 

“When  you  are  quite  through  your  histrionic  ef¬ 
forts,”  he  suggested,  apologetically,  “I  will  proceed 
with  my  amorous  pipings.  Really,  Patricia,  one  might 
fancy  you  the  heroine  of  a  society  drama,  working 
up  the  sympathies  of  the  audience  before  taking  to 
evil  ways.  Surely,  you  are  not  about  to  leave  your 

197 


» 


dear,  good,  patient  husband,  Patricia?  Heroines  only- 
do  that  on  dark  and  stormy  nights,  and  in  an  opera 
toilette;  wearing  her  best  gown  seems  always  to  af¬ 
fect  a  heroine  in  that  way.” 

Mr.  Charteris,  at  this  point,  dropped  the  key-ring, 
and  drew  nearer  to  her;  his  voice  sank  to  a  pleading 
cadence. 

“We  are  in  Arcadia,  Patricia;  virtue  and  vice  are 
contraband  in  this  charming  country,  and  must  be 
left  at  the  frontier.  Let  us  be  adorably  foolish  and 
happy,  my  lady,  and  forget  for  a  little  the  evil  days 
that  approach.  Can  you  not  fancy  this  to  be  Ar¬ 
cadia,  Patricia? — it  requires  the  merest  trifle  of  im¬ 
agination.  Listen  very  carefully,  and  you  will  hear 
the  hoofs  of  fauns  rustling  among  the  fallen  leaves; 
they  are  watching  us,  Patricia,  from  behind  every 
tree-bole.  They  think  you  a  dryad — the  queen  of  all 
the  dryads,  with  the  most  glorious  eyes  and  hair  and 
the  most  tempting  lips  in  all  the  forest.  After  a  lit¬ 
tle,  shaggy,  big-thewed  ventripotent  Pan  will  grow 
jealous,  and  ravish  you  away  from  me,  as  he  stole 
Syrinx  from  her  lover.  You  are  very  beautiful,  Pa¬ 
tricia;  you  are  quite  incredibly  beautiful.  I  adore  you, 
Patricia.  Would  you  mind  if  I  held  your  hand?  It 
is  a  foolish  thing  to  do,  but  it  is  preeminently  Ar¬ 
cadian.” 

She  heard  him  with  downcast  eyes;  and  her  cheeks 
flushed  a  pink  color  that  was  agreeable  to  contempla¬ 
tion. 

“Do — do  you  really  care  for  me,  Jack?”  she  asked, 
198 


BYWAYS 


softly;  then  cried,  “No,  no,  you  needn’t  answer — be¬ 
cause,  of  course,  you  worship  me  madly,  unboundedly, 
distractedly.  They  all  do,  but  you  do  it  more  con¬ 
vincingly.  You  have  been  taking  lessons  at  night- 
school,  I  dare  say,  at  all  sorts  of  murky  institutions. 
And,  Jack,  really,  cross  my  heart,  I  always  stopped 
the  others  when  they  talked  this  way.  I  tried  to 
stop  you,  too.  You  know  I  did?” 

She  raised  her  lashes,  a  trifle  uncertainly,  and  with¬ 
drew  her  hand  from  his,  a  trifle  slowly.  “It  is  wrong 
— all  horribly  wrong.  I  wonder  at  myself,  I  can’t 
understand  how  in  the  world  I  can  be  such  a  fool 
about  you.  I  must  not  be  alone  with  you  again.  I 
must  tell  my  husband — everything,”  she  concluded, 
and  manifestly  not  meaning  a  word  of  what  she  said. 

“By  all  means,”  assented  Mr.  Charteris,  readily. 
“Let’s  tell  my  wife,  too.  It  will  make  things  so  very 
interesting.” 

“Rudolph  would  be  terribly  unhappy,”  she  re¬ 
flected. 

“He  would  probably  never  smile  again,”  said  Mr. 
Charteris.  “And  my  wife — oh,  it  would  upset  Anne, 
quite  frightfully!  It  is  our  altruistic,  nay,  our 
bounden  duty  to  save  them  from  such  misery.” 

“I — I  don’t  know  what  to  do!”  she  wailed. 

“The  obvious  course,”  said  he,  after  reflection,  “is 
to  shake  off  the  bonds  of  matrimony,  without  further 
delay.  So  let’s  elope,  Patricia.” 

Patricia,  who  was  really  unhappy,  took  refuge  in 
flippancy,  and  laughed. 


199 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


“I  make  it  a  rule,”  said  she,  “never  to  elope  on  Fri¬ 
days.  Besides,  now  I  think  of  it,  there  is  Rudolph — • 
Ah,  Rudolph  doesn’t  care  a  button’s  worth  about  me, 
I  know.  The  funny  part  is  that  he  doesn’t  know  it. 
He  has  simply  assumed  he  is  devoted  to  me,  because 
all  respectable  people  are  devoted  to  their  wives.  I 
can  assure  you,  mon  ami ,  he  would  be  a  veritable 
Othello,  if  there  were  any  scandal,  and  would  in¬ 
finitely  prefer  the  bolster  to  the  divorce-court.  He 
would  have  us  followed  and  torn  apart  by  wild  po¬ 
licemen.” 

Mr.  Charteris  meditated  for  a  moment. 

“Rudolph,  as  you  are  perfectly  aware,  would  sim¬ 
ply  deplore  the  terribly  lax  modern  notions  in  regard 
to  marriage  and  talk  to  newspaper  reporters  about 

this  much - ”  he  measured  it  between  thumb  and 

forefinger — '“concerning  the  beauty  and  chivalry  of 
the  South.  He  would  do  nothing  more.  I  question 
if  Rudolph  Musgrave  would  ever  in  any  circum¬ 
stances  be  capable  of  decisive  action.” 

“Ah,  don’t  make  fun  of  Rudolph !”  she  cried, 
quickly.  “Rudolph  can’t  help  it  if  he  is  conscientious 
and  in  consequence  rather  depressing  to  live  with. 
And  for  all  that  he  so  often  plays  the  jackass-fool 
about  women,  like  Grandma  Pendomer,  he  is  a  man, 
Jack — a  well-meaning,  clean  and  dunderheaded  man! 
You  aren’t;  you  are  puny  and  frivolous,  and  you  sneer 
too  much,  and  you  are  making  a  fool  of  me,  and — 
and  that’s  why  I  like  you,  I  suppose.  Oh,  I  wish  I 
were  good!  I  have  always  tried  to  be  good,  and 
200 


BYWAYS 


there  doesn’t  seem  to  be  a  hatpin  in  the  world  that 
makes  a  halo  sit  comfortably.  Now,  Jack,  you  know 
I’ve  tried  to  be  good!  I’ve  never  let  you  kiss  me, 
and  I’ve  never  let  you  hold  my  hand — until  to-day — 
and — and — — *  ’ 

Patricia  paused,  and  laughed. 

“But  we  were  talking  of  Rudolph,”  she  said,  with  a 
touch  of  weariness.  “Rudolph  has  all  the  virtues  that 
a  woman  most  admires  until  she  attempts  to  live  in 
the  same  house  with  them.” 

“I  thank  you,”  said  Mr.  Charteris,  “for  the  high 
opinion  you  entertain  of  my  moral  character.”  He  be¬ 
stowed  a  reproachful  sigh  upon  her,  and  continued: 
“At  any  rate,  Rudolph  Musgrave  has  been  an  un¬ 
usually  lucky  man — the  luckiest  that  I  know  of.” 

Patricia  had  risen  as  if  to  go.  She  turned  her  big 
purple  eyes  on  him  for  a  moment. 

“You — you  think  so?”  she  queried,  hesitatingly. 

Afterward  she  spread  out  her  hands  in  a  helpless 
gesture,  and  laughed  for  no  apparent  reason,  and  sat 
down  again. 

“Why?”  said  Patricia. 

It  took  Charteris  fully  an  hour  to  point  out  all  the 
reasons. 

Patricia  told  him  very  frankly  that  she  consid¬ 
ered  him  to  be  talking  nonsense,  but  she  seemed  quite 
willing  to  listen. 


201 


II 

1 

SUNSET  was  approaching  on  the  following 
afternoon  when  Rudolph  Musgrave,  fresh 
from  Lichfield, — whither,  as  has  been  recorded, 
the  bringing  out  of  the  July  number  of  the  Lichfield 
Historical  Association  s  Quarterly  Magazine  had 
called  him, — came  out  on  the  front  porch  at  Matocton. 
He  had  arrived  on  the  afternoon  train,  about  an  hour 
previously,  in  time  to  superintend  little  Roger’s  cus¬ 
tomary  evening  transactions  with  an  astounding  quan¬ 
tity  of  bread  and  milk;  and,  Roger  abed,  his  father, 
having  dressed  at  once  for  supper,  found  himself  ready 
for  that  meal  somewhat  in  advance  of  the  rest  of  the 
house-party. 

Indeed,  only  one  of  them  was  visible  at  this  mo¬ 
ment — a  woman,  who  was  reading  on  a  rustic  bench 
some  distance  from  the  house,  and  whose  back  was 
turned  to  him.  The  poise  of  her  head,  however,  was 
not  unfamiliar;  also,  it  is  not  everyone  who  has  hair 
that  is  like  a  nimbus  of  thrice-polished  gold. 

Colonel  Musgrave  threw  back  his  shoulders,  and 
drew  a  deep  breath.  Subsequently,  with  a  fine  air  of 
202 


BYWAYS 


unconcern,  he  inspected  the  view  from  the  porch, 
which  was,  in  fact,  quite  worthy  of  his  attention.  In¬ 
teresting  things  have  happened  at  Matocton — many 
events  that  have  been  preserved  in  the  local  mythology, 
not  always  to  the  credit  of  the  old  Musgraves,  and 
a  few  which  have  slipped  into  a  modest  niche  in  his¬ 
tory.  It  was,  perhaps,  on  these  that  Colonel  Mus- 
grave  pondered  so  intently. 

Once  the  farthingaled  and  red-heeled  gentry  came 
in  sluggish  barges  to  Matocton,  and  the  broad  river 
on  which  the  estate  faces  was  thick  with  bellying  sails ; 
since  the  days  of  railroads,  one  approaches  the  man¬ 
sion  through  the  maple-grove  in  the  rear,  and  enters 
ignominiously  by  the  back-door. 

The  house  stands  on  a  considerable  elevation.  The 
main  portion,  with  its  hipped  roof  and  mullioned  win¬ 
dows,  is  very  old,  but  the  two  wings  that  stretch  to 
the  east  and  west  are  comparatively  modern,  and 
date  back  little  over  a  century.  Time  has  mellowed 
them  into  harmony  with  the  major  part  of  the  house,, 
and  the  kindly  Virginia  creeper  has  done  its  utmost 
to  conceal  the  fact  that  they  are  constructed  of  ple¬ 
beian  bricks  which  were  baked  in  this  country;  but 
Matocton  was  Matocton  long  before  these  wings  were 
built,  and  a  mere  affair  of  yesterday,  such  as  the  Revo¬ 
lution,  antedates  them.  They  were  not  standing  when 
Tarleton  paid  his  famous  visit  to  Matocton. 

In  the  main  hall,  you  may  still  see  the  stairs  up 
which  he  rode  on  horseback,  and  the  slashes  which 
his  saber  hacked  upon  the  hand-rail. 


203 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


To  the  front  of  the  mansion  lies  a  close-shaven 
lawn,  dotted  with  sundry  oaks  and  maples ;  and  thence, 
the  formal  gardens  descend  in  six  broad  terraces. 
There  is  when  summer  reigns  no  lovelier  spot  than 
this  bright  medley  of  squares  and  stars  and  triangles 
and  circles — all  Euclid  in  flowerage — which  glow  with 
multitudinous  colors  where  the  sun  strikes.  You  will 
find  no  new  flowers  at  Matocton,  though.  Here  are 
verbenas,  poppies,  lavender  and  marigolds,  sweet-wil¬ 
liam,  hollyhocks  and  columbine,  phlox,  and  larkspur, 
and  meadowsweet,  and  heart’s-ease,  just  as  they  were 
when  Thomasine  Musgrave,  Matocton’s  first  chate¬ 
laine,  was  wont  to  tend  them;  and  of  all  floral  par¬ 
venus  the  gardens  are  innocent.  Box-hedges  mark 
the  walkways. 

The  seventh  terrace  was,  until  lately,  uncultivated, 
the  trees  having  been  cleared  away  to  afford  pas¬ 
turage.  It  is  now  closely  planted  with  beeches,  none 
of  great  size,  and  extends  to  a  tangled  thicket  of  field- 
pines  and  cedar  and  sassafras  and  blackberry  bushes, 
which  again  masks  a  drop  of  some  ten  feet  to  the 
river. 

The  beach  here  is  narrow ;  at  high  tide,  it  is  rarely 
more  than  fifteen  feet  in  breadth,  and  is  in  many 
places  completely  submerged.  Past  this,  the  river 
lapses  into  the  horizon  line  without  a  break,  save  on 
an  extraordinarily  clear  day  when  Bigelow’s  Island 
may  be  seen  as  a  dim  smudge  upon  the  west. 

All  these  things,  Rudolph  Musgrave  regarded  with 
curiously  deep  interest  for  one  who  had  seen  them  so 
204 


BYWAYS 


many  times  before.  Then,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoul¬ 
ders,  he  sauntered  forward  across  the  lawn.  He  had 
planned  several  appropriate  speeches,  but,  when  it 
came  to  the  point  of  giving  them  utterance,  he  merely 
held  out  his  hand  in  an  awkward  fashion,  and  said: 

“Anne !” 

She  looked  up  from  her  reading. 

She  did  this  with  two  red-brown  eyes  that  had  no 
apparent  limits  to  their  depth.  Her  hand  was  soft; 
it  seemed  quite  lost  in  the  broad  palm  of  a  mans 
hand. 

“Dear  Rudolph,”  she  said,  as  simply  as  though  they 
had  parted  yesterday,  “it’s  awfully  good  to  see  you 
again.” 

Colonel  Musgrave  cleared  his  throat,  and  sat  down 
beside  her. 

A  moment  later  Colonel  Musgrave  cleared  his 
throat  once  more. 

Then  Mrs.  Charteris  laughed.  It  was  a  pleasant 
laugh — a  clear,  rippling  carol  of  clean  mirth  that  spar¬ 
kled  in  her  eyes,  and  dimpled  in  her  wholesome 
cheeks. 

“So!  do  you  find  it  very,  very  awkward?” 

“Awkward !”  he  cried.  Their  glances  met  in  a  flash 
of  comprehension  which  seemed  to  purge  the  air. 
Musgrave  was  not  in  the  least  self-conscious  now. 
He  laughed,  and  lifted  an  admonitory  forefinger. 

“Oh,  good  Cynara,”  he  said,  “I  am  not  what  I  was. 
And  so  I  cannot  do  it,  my  dear — I  really  cannot  pos¬ 
sibly  live  up  to  the  requirements  of  being  a  Buried 

205 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


Past.  In  a  proper  story-book  or  play,  I  would  have  to 
come  back  from  New  Zealand  or  the  Transvaal,  all 
covered  with  glory  and  epaulets,  and  have  found  you 
in  the  last  throes  of  consumption:  instead,  you  have 
fattened,  Anne,  which  a  Buried  Past  never  does,  and 
which  shows  a  sad  lack  of  appreciation  for  my  feel¬ 
ings.  And  I — ah,  my  dear,  I  must  confess  that  my 
hair  is  growing  gray,  and  that  my  life  has  not  been 
entirely  empty  without  you,  and  that  I  ate  and  en¬ 
joyed  two  mutton-chops  at  luncheon,  though  I  knew 
I  should  see  you  to-day.  I  am  afraid  we  are  neither 
of  us  up  to  heroics,  Anne.  So  let’s  be  sensible  and 
comfy,  my  dear.” 

“You  brute!”  she  cried — not  looking  irreparably 
angry,  yet  not  without  a  real  touch  of  vexation;  “don’t 
you  know  that  every  woman  cherishes  the  picture  of 
her  former  lovers  sitting  alone  in  the  twilight,  and 
growing  lackadaisical  over  undying  memories  and 
faded  letters?  And  you — you  approach  me,  after  I 
don’t  dare  to  think  how  many  years,  as  calmly  as  if 
I  were  an  old  schoolmate  of  your  mother’s,  and  at¬ 
tempt  to  talk  to  me  about  mutton-chops !  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Rudolph  Musgrave.  You 
might,  at  least,  have  started  a  little  at  seeing  me,  and 
have  clasped  your  hand  to  your  heart,  and  have  said, 
‘You,  you!’  or  something  of  the  sort.  I  had  every 
right  to  expect  it.” 

Mrs.  Charteris  pouted,  and  then  trifled  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  with  the  pages  of  her  book. 

“And — and  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  am  sorry  for 
206 


BYWAYS 


the  way  I  spoke  to  you — that  night,”  she  swiftly  said. 
Anne  did  not  look  at  him.  “Women  don’t  under¬ 
stand  things  that  are  perfectly  simple  to  men,  I  sup¬ 
pose — 1  mean — that  is,  Jack  said - ” 

“That  you  ought  to  apologize?  It  was  very  like 
him” — and  Colonel  Musgrave  smiled  to  think  how  like 
John  Charteris  it  was.  “Jack  is  quite  wonderful,” 
he  observed. 

She  looked  up,  saying  impulsively,  “Rudolph,  you 
don’t  know  how  happy  he  makes  me.” 

“Heartless  woman,  and  would  you  tempt  me  to 
end  the  tragedy  of  my  life  with  a  Shakesperian  fifth 
act  of  poisonings  and  assassination?  I  spurn  you, 
temptress.  For,  after  all,  it  was  an  unpleasantly  long 
while  ago  we  went  mad  for  each  other,”  Musgrave 
announced,  and  he  smiled.  “I  fancy  that  the  boy  and 
girl  we  knew  of  are  as  dead  now  as  Nebuchadnezzar. 
‘Marian’s  married,  and  I  sit  here  alive  and  merry  at’ 

— well,  not  at  forty  year,  unluckily - ” 

“If  you  continue  in  that  heartless  strain,  I  shall 
go  into  the  house,”  Mrs.  Charteris  protested. 

Her  indignation  was  exaggerated,  but  it  was  not 
altogether  feigned;  women  cannot  quite  pardon  a  re¬ 
jected  suitor  who  marries  and  is  content.  They  wish 
him  all  imaginable  happiness  and  prosperity,  of 
course;  and  they  are  honestly  interested  in  his  wel¬ 
fare;  but  it  seems  unexpectedly  callous  in  him.  And 
besides  his  wife  is  so  perfectly  commonplace. 

Mrs.  Charteris,  therefore,  added,  with  emphasis: 
“I  am  really  disgracefully  happy.” 


207 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


“Glad  to  hear  it,”  said  Musgrave,  placidly.  “So 
am  I.” 

“Oh,  Rudolph,  Rudolph,  you  are  hopeless!”  she 
sighed.  “And  you  used  to  make  such  a  nice  lover!” 

Mrs.  Charteris  looked  out  over  the  river,  which 
was  like  melting  gold,  and  for  a  moment  was  silent. 

“I  was  frightfully  in  love  with  you,  Rudolph,”  she 
said,  as  half  in  wonder.  “After — after  that  horrible 
time  when  my  parents  forced  us  to  behave  rationally, 
I  wept — oh,  I  must  have  wept  deluges!  I  firmly  in¬ 
tended  to  pine  away  to  an  early  grave.  And  that 
second  time  I  liked  you  too,  but  then — there  was  Jack, 
you  see.” 

“H’m !”  said  Colonel  Musgrave ;  “yes,  I  see.” 

“I  want  you  to  continue  to  be  friends  with  Jack,” 
she  went  on,  and  her  face  lighted  up,  and  her  voice 
grew  tender.  “He  has  the  artistic  temperament,  and 
naturally  that  makes  him  sensitive,  and  a  trifle  irri¬ 
table  at  times.  It  takes  so  little  to  upset  him,  you 
see,  for  he  feels  so  acutely  what  he  calls  the  discords 
of  life.  I  think  most  men  are  jealous  of  his  talents; 
so  they  call  him  selfish  and  finicky  and  conceited.  He 
isn’t  really,  you  know.  Only,  he  can’t  help  feeling 
a  little  superior  to  the  majority  of  men,  and  his  ar¬ 
tistic  temperament  leads  him  to  magnify  the  lesser 
mishaps  of  life — such  as  the  steak  being  overdone, 
or  missing  a  train.  Oh,  really,  a  thing  like  that  wor¬ 
ries  him  as  much  as  the  loss  of  a  fortune,  or  a  death 
in  the  family,  would  upset  anyone  else.  Jack  says 
there  are  no  such  things  as  trifles  in  a  harmonious 
208 


BYWAYS 


and  well-proportioned  life,  and  I  suppose  that’s  true 
to  men  of  genius.  Of  course,  I  am  rather  a  Philis¬ 
tine,  and  I  grate  on  him  at  times — that  is,  I  used  to, 
but  he  says  I  have  improved  wonderfully.  And  so 
we  are  ridiculously  happy,  Jack  and  I.” 

Musgrave  cast  about  vainly  for  an  appropriate 
speech.  Then  he  compromised  with  his  conscience, 
and  said:  “Your  husband  is  a  very  clever  man.” 

“Isn’t  he?”  She  had  flushed  for  pleasure  at  hear¬ 
ing  him  praised.  Oh,  yes,  Anne  loved  Jack  Charteris! 
There  was  no  questioning  that;  it  was  written  in  her 
face,  was  vibrant  in  her  voice  as  she  spoke  of  him. 

“Now,  really,  Rudolph,  aren’t  his  books  wonderful? 
I  don’t  appreciate  them,  of  course,  for  I’m  not  clever, 
but  I  know  you  do.  I  don’t  see  why  men  think  him 
selfish.  I  know  better.  You  have  to  live  with  Jack 
to  really  appreciate  him.  And  every  day  I  discover 
some  new  side  of  his  character  that  makes  him  dearer 
to  me.  He’s  so  clever — and  so  noble.  Why,  I  remem¬ 
ber — Well,  before  Jack  made  his  first  hit  with  Asia - 
roth’s  Lackey ,  he  lived  with  his  sister.  They  hadn’t 
any  money,  and,  of  course,  Jack  couldn’t  be  expected 
to  take  a  clerkship  or  anything  like  that,  because  busi¬ 
ness  details  make  his  head  ache,  poor  boy.  So,  his 
sister  taught  school,  and  he  lived  with  her.  They 
were  very  happy — his  sister  simply  adores  him,  and 
I  am  positively  jealous  of  her  sometimes — but,  unfor¬ 
tunately,  the  bank  in  which  she  kept  her  money  failed 
one  day.  I  remember  it  was  just  before  he  asked 
me  to  marry  him,  and  told  me,  in  his  dear,  laughing 

209 


manner,  that  he  hadn’t  a  penny  in  the  world,  and 
that  we  would  have  to  live  on  bread  and  cheese  and 
kisses.  Of  course,  I  had  a  plenty  for  us  both,  though, 
so  we  weren’t  really  in  danger  of  being  reduced  to 
that.  Well,  I  wanted  to  make  his  sister  an  allow¬ 
ance.  But  Jack  pointed  out,  with  considerable  rea¬ 
son,  that  one  person  could  live  very  comfortably  on 
an  income  that  had  formerly  supported  two.  He  said 
it  wasn’t  right  I  should  be  burdened  with  the  sup¬ 
port  of  his  family.  Jack  was  so  sensitive,  you  see, 
lest  people  might  think  he  was  making  a  mercenary 
marriage,  and  that  his  sister  was  profiting  by  it.  Now, 
I  call  that  one  of  the  noblest  things  I  ever  heard  of, 
for  he  is  devotedly  attached  to  his  sister,  and,  nat¬ 
urally,  it  is  a  great  grief  to  him  to  see  her  compelled 
to  work  for  a  living.  His  last  book  was  dedicated  to 
her,  and  the  dedication  is  one  of  the  most  tender  and 
pathetic  things  I  ever  read.” 

Musgrave  was  hardly  conscious  of  what  she  was 
saying.  She  was  not  particularly  intelligent,  this 
handsome,  cheery  woman,  but  her  voice,  and  the  rich¬ 
ness  and  sweetness  of  it,  and  the  vitality  of  her  laugh, 
contented  his  soul. 

Anne  was  different;  the  knowledge  came  again  to 
him  quite  simply  that  Anne  was  different,  and  in  the 
nature  of  things  must  always  be  a  little  different  from 
all  other  people — even  Patricia  Musgrave.  He  had 
no  desire  to  tell  Anne  Charteris  of  this,  no  idea  that 
it  would  affect  in  any  way  the  tenor  of  his  life.  He 
merely  accepted  the  fact  that  she  was,  after  all,  Anne 
210 


BYWAYS 


Willoughby,  and  that  her  dear  presence  seemed,  some¬ 
how,  to  strengthen  and  cheer  and  comfort  and  con¬ 
tent  beyond  the  reach  of  expression. 

Yet  Musgrave  recognized  her  lack  of  cleverness, 
and  liked  and  admired  her  none  the  less.  A  vision 
of  Patricia  arose — a  vision  of  a  dainty,  shallow,  Dres- 
den-china  face  with  a  surprising  quantity  of  vivid  hair 
about  it.  Patricia  was  beautiful;  and  Patricia  was 
clever,  in  her  pinchbeck  way.  But  Rudolph  Musgrave 
doubted  very  much  if  her  mocking  eyes  now  ever 
softened  into  that  brooding,  sacred  tenderness  he  had 
seen  in  Anne’s  eyes;  and  he  likewise  questioned  if  a 
hurried,  happy  thrill  ran  through  Patricia’s  voice  when 
Patricia  spoke  of  her  husband. 

“You  have  unquestionably  married  an  unusual 
man,”  Musgrave  said.  “I — by  Jove,  you  know,  I 
fancy  my  wife  finds  him  almost  as  attractive  as 
you  do.” 

“Ah,  Rudolph,  I  can’t  fancy  anyone  whom — whom 
you  loved  caring  for  anyone  else.  Don’t  I  remember, 
sir,  how  irresistible  you  can  be  when  you  choose?” 

Anne  laughed,  and  raised  plump  hands  to  heaven." 

“Really,  though,  women  pursue  him  to  a  perfectly 
indecent  extent.  I  have  to  watch  over  him  carefully; 
not  that  I  distrust  him,  of  course,  for — dear  Jack! — 
he  is  so  devoted  to  me,  and  cares  so  little  for  other 
women,  that  Joseph  would  seem  in  comparison  only 
a  depraved  roue.  But  the  women — why,  Rudolph, 
there  was  an  Italian  countess  at  Rome — the  impudent 
minx ! — who  actually  made  me  believe However, 


2 1 1 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


Jack  explained  all  that,  after  I  had  made  both  a 
spectacle  and  a  nuisance  of  myself,  and  he  had  be¬ 
haved  so  nobly  in  the  entire  affair  that  for  days  after¬ 
wards  I  was  positively  limp  with  repentance.  Then 
in  Paris  that  flighty  Mrs.  Hardress — but  he  explained 
that,  too.  Some  women  are  shameless,  Rudolph,” 
Mrs.  Charteris  concluded,  and  sighed  her  pity  for 
them. 

“Utterly  so,”  Musgrave  assented,  gravely. 

He  was  feeling  a  thought  uncomfortable.  To  him 
the  place  had  grown  portentous.  The  sun  was  low, 
and  the  long  shadows  of  the  trees  were  black  on  the 
dim  lawn.  People  were  assembling  for  supper,  and 
passing  to  and  fro  under  low-hanging  branches;  and 
the  gaily-colored  gowns  of  the  women  glimmered 
through  a  faint  blue  haze  like  that  with  which 
Boucher  and  Watteau  and  Fragonard  loved  to  veil, 
and  thereby  to  make  wistful,  somehow,  the  antics 
of  those  fine  parroquet-like  manikins  who  figure  in 
their  fetes  galantes. 

Inside  the  house,  someone  was  playing  an  unpleas¬ 
ant  sort  of  air  on  the  piano — an  air  which  was  quite 
needlessly  creepy  and  haunting  and  insistent.  It  all 
seemed  like  a  grim  bit  out  of  a  play.  The  tenderness 
and  pride  that  shone  in  Anne’s  eyes  as  she  boasted 
of  her  happiness  troubled  Rudolph  Musgrave.  He 
had  a  perfectly  unreasonable  desire  to  carry  her  away, 
by  force,  if  necessary,  and  to  protect  her  from  clever 
people,  and  to  buy  things  for  her. 

“So,  I  am  an  old,  old  married  woman  now,  and 


212 


BYWAYS 


— and  I  think  in  some  ways  I  suit  Jack  better  than  a 
more  brilliant  person  might.  I  am  glad  your  wife 
has  taken  a  fancy  to  him.  And  I  want  you  to  profit 
by  her  example.  Jack  says  she  is  one  of  the  most* 
attractive  women  he  ever  met.  He  asked  me  to-day 
why  I  didn’t  do  my  hair  like  hers.  She  must  make 
you  very  happy,  Rudolph?” 

‘‘My  wife,”  Colonel  Musgrave  said,  “is  in  my  par¬ 
tial  opinion,  a  very  clever  and  very  beautiful  woman.” 

“Yes;  cleverness  and  beauty  are  sufficient  to  make 
any  man  happy,  I  suppose,”  Anne  hazarded.  “Jack 
says,  though — Are  cleverness  and  beauty  the  main 
things  in  life,  Rudolph?” 

“Undoubtedly,”  he  protested. 

“Now,  that,”  she  said,  judicially,  “shows  the  dif¬ 
ference  in  men.  Jack  says  a  man  loves  a  woman, 
not  for  her  beauty  or  any  other  quality  she  possesses, 
but  just  because  she  is  the  woman  he  loves  and  can’t 
help  loving.” 

“Ah!  I  dare  say  that  is  the  usual  reason.  Yes,” 
said  Colonel  Musgrave, — “because  she  is  the  woman 
he  loves  and  cannot  help  loving!” 

Anne  clapped  her  hands.  “Ah,  so  I  have  penetrated 
your  indifference  at  last,  sir!” 

Impulsively,  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and 
spoke  with  earnestness.  “Dear  Rudolph,  I  am  so 
glad  you’ve  found  the  woman  you  can  really  love. 
Jack  says  there  is  only  one  possible  woman  in  the 
world  for  each  man,  and  that  only  in  a  month  of 
Sundays  does  he  find  her.” 


213 


“Yes,”  said  Musgrave.  He  had  risen,  and  was  look¬ 
ing  down  in  friendly  fashion  into  her  honest,  lovely 
eyes.  “Yes,  there  is  only  one  possible  woman.  And 
— yes,  I  think  I  found  her,  Anne,  some  years  ago.” 


214 


Ill 


THUS  it  befell  that  all  passed  smoothly  with 
Rudolph  Musgrave  and  Anne  Charteris,  with 
whom  he  was  not  in  the  least  in  love  any 
longer  (he  reflected),  although  in  the  nature  of  things 
she  must  always  seem  to  him  a  little  different  from 
all  other  people. 

And  it  befell,  too,  that  the  following  noon — this 
day  being  a  Sunday,  warm,  clear,  and  somnolent — 
Anne  Charteris  and  Rudolph  Musgrave  sat  upon  the 
lawn  before  Matocton,  and  little  Roger  Musgrave  was 
with  them.  In  fact,  these  two  had  been  high-handedly 
press-ganged  by  this  small  despot  to  serve  against  an 
enemy  then  harassing  his  majesty’s  equanimity  and  by 
him,  revilingly,  designated  as  Nothing-to-do. 

And  so  Anne  made  for  Roger — as  she  had  learned 
to  do  for  her  dead  son — in  addition  to  a  respectable 
navy  of  paper  boats,  a  vast  number  of  “boxes”  and 
“Nantucket  sinks”  and  “picture  frames”  and  “foot¬ 
balls.”  She  had  used  up  the  greater  part  of  a  maga¬ 
zine  before  the  imp  grew  tired  of  her  novel  accom¬ 
plishments. 


215 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


For  as  he  invidiously  observed,  “I  can  make  them 
for  myself  now,  most  as  good  as  you,  only  I  always 
tear  the  bottom  of  the  boat  when  you  pull  it  out, 
and  my  sinks  are  kind  of  wobbly.  And  besides,  I’ve 
made  up  a  story  just  like  your  husband  gets  money 
for  doing.  And  if  I  had  a  quarter  I  would  buy  that 
green  and  yellow  snake  in  the  toy-store  window  and 
wiggle  it  at  people  and  scare  them  into  fits.” 

“Sonnikins,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave,  “suppose  you 
tell  us  the  story,  and  then  we  will  see  if  it  is  really 
worth  a  quarter,  and  try  to  save  you  from  this  un¬ 
blushing  mendicancy.” 

“Well,  God  bless  Father  and  Mother  and  little 
cousins — —  Oh,  no,  that’s  what  I  say  at  night.” 
Roger’s  voice  now  altered,  assuming  shrill  singsong 
cadences.  His  pensive  gravity  would  have  appeared 
excessive  if  manifested  by  the  Great  Sphinx.  “What 
I  meant  to  say  was  that  once  upon  a  time  when  the 
Battle  of  Gettysburg  was  going  on  and  houses  were 
being  robbed  and  burned,  and  my  dear  grandfather 
was  being  shot  through  the  heart,  a  certain  house, 
where  the  richest  man  in  town  lived,  was  having  feast 
and  merriment,  never  dreaming  of  any  harm,  or  think¬ 
ing  of  their  little  child  Rachel,  who  was  on  the  front 
porch  watching  the  battle  and  screaming  with  joy  at 
every  man  that  fell  dead.  One  dark-faced  man  was 
struck  with  a  bullet  and  was  hurt.  He  saw  the  child 
laughing  at  him  and  his  heart  was  full  of  revenge. 
So  that  night,  when  all  had  gone  to  bed,  the  old  dark¬ 
faced  man  went  softly  in  the  house  and  got  the  little 
216 


BYWAYS 


girl  and  set  the  house  on  fire.  And  he  carried  her  out 
in  the  mountains,  and  is  that  worth  a  quarter  ?” 

“Good  heavens,  no!”  said  Anne.  “How  dare  you 
leave  us  in  such  harrowing  suspense?” 

“Well,  a  whole  lot  more  happened,  because  all  the 
while  Rachel  was  asleep.  When  she  woke  up,  she  did 
not  know  where  under  the  sun  she  was.  So  she  walked 
along  for  about  an  hour  and  came  to  a  little  village, 
and  after  a  few  minutes  she  came  to  a  large  rock, 
and  guess  who  she  met?  She  met  her  father,  and 
when  he  saw  her  he  hugged  her  so  hard  that  when  he 
got  through  she  did  not  have  any  breath  left  in  her. 
And  they  walked  along,  and  after  a  while  they  came 
to  the  wood,  and  it  was  now  about  six  o'clock,  and  it 
was  very  dark,  and  just  then  nine  robbers  jumped 
out  from  behind  the  trees,  and  they  took  a  pistol  and 
shot  Rachel’s  father,  and  the  child  fainted.  Her  papa 
was  dead,  so  she  dug  a  hole  and  buried  him,  and  went 
right  back  home.  And  of  course  that  was  all,  and  if 
I  had  that  snake,  I  wouldn’t  try  to  scare  you  with  it, 
father,  anyhow.” 

So  Colonel  Musgrave  gave  his  son  a  well-earned 
coin,  as  the  colonel  considered,  and  it  having  been 
decreed,  “Now,  father,  you  tell  a  story,”  obediently 
read  aloud  from  a  fat  red-covered  book.  The  tale 
was  of  the  colonel’s  selecting,  and  it  dealt  with  a 
shepherdess  and  a  chimney-sweep. 

“And  so,”  the  colonel  perorated,  “the  little  china 
people  remained  together,  and  were  thankful  for  the 
rivet  in  grandfather's  neck,  and  continued  to  love  each 

217 


other  until  they  were  broken  to  pieces -  And  the 

tale  is  a  parable,  my  son.  You  will  find  that  out  some 
day.  I  wish  you  didn’t  have  to.” 

“But  is  that  all,  father?” 

“You  will  find  it  rather  more  than  enough,  sonni- 
kins,  when  you  begin  to  interpret.  Yes,  that  is  all. 
Only  you  are  to  remember  always  that  they  climbed 
to  the  very  top  of  the  chimney,  where  they  could 
see  the  stars,  before  they  decided  to  go  back  and  live 
upon  the  parlor  table  under  the  brand-new  looking- 
glass.  For  the  stars  are  disconcertingly  unconcerned 
when  you  have  climbed  to  them,  and  so  altogether  un¬ 
impressed  by  your  achievement  that  it  is  the  nature 
of  all  china  people  to  slink  home  again,  precisely  as 
your  Rachel  did — and  as  Mrs.  Charteris  will  assure 
you.” 

“I?”  said  Anne.  “Now,  honestly,  Rudolph,  I  was 
thinking  you  ought  not  to  let  him  sit  upon  the  grass, 
because  he  really  has  a  cold.  And  if  I  were  you,  I 
would  give  him  a  good  dose  of  castor-oil  to-night. 
Some  people  give  it  in  lemon- juice,  I  know,  but  I 
found  with  my  boy  that  peppermint  is  rather  less  dis¬ 
agreeable.  And  you  could  easily  send  somebody  over 
to  the  store  at  the  station - ” 

Anne  broke  off  short.  “Was  I  being  inadequate 
again  ?  I  am  sorry,  but  with  children  you  never  know 
what  a  cold  may  lead  to,  and  I  really  do  not  believe  it 
good  for  him  to  sit  in  this  damp  grass.” 

“Sonnikins,”  said  Rudolph  Musgrave,  “you  had  bet¬ 
ter  climb  up  into  my  lap,  before  you  and  I  are  Pod- 
218 


BYWAYS 


snapped  from  the  universe  by  the  only  embodiment 
of  common-sense  just  now  within  our  reach.” 

He  patted  the  boy’s  head  and  latterly  resumed :  “I 
am  afraid  of  you,  Anne.  Whenever  I  am  imagining 
vain  things  or  stitching  romantic  possibilities,  like  em¬ 
broideries,  about  the  fabric  of  my  past,  I  always 
find  the  real  you  in  my  path,  as  undeniable  as  a  gas- 
bill.  I  don’t  believe  you  ever  dare  to  think,  because 
there  is  no  telling  what  it  might  lead  to.  You  are 
simply  unassailably  armored  by  the  courage  of  other 
people’s  convictions.” 

Her  candid  eyes  met  his  over  the  boy’s  bright  head. 
“And  what  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about?” 

“I  am  lamenting.  I  am  rending  the  air  and  beating 
my  breast  on  account  of  your  obstinate  preference 
for  being  always  in  the  right.  I  do  wish  you  would 
endeavor  to  impersonate  a  human  being  a  trifle  more 
convincingly - ” 

But  the  great  gong,  booming  out  for  luncheon,  in¬ 
terrupted  him  at  this  point,  and  Colonel  Musgrave 
was  never  permitted  to  finish  his  complaint  against 
Anne’s  unimaginativeness. 


219 


IV 


ON  that  same  Sunday  morning,  while  Anne  Char- 
teris  and  Rudolph  Musgrave  contended  with 
little  Roger’s  boredom  on  the  lawn  before 
Matocton,  Patricia  and  Charteris  met  by  accident  on 
the  seventh  terrace  of  the  gardens.  Patricia  had  men¬ 
tioned  casually  at  the  breakfast-table  that  she  intended 
to  spend  the  forenoon  on  this  terrace  unsabbatically 
making  notes  for  a  paper  on  “The  Symbolism  of 
Dante,”  which  she  was  to  read  before  the  Lichfield 
Woman’s  Club  in  October  ;  but  Mr.  Charteris  had  not 
overheard  her. 

He  was  seated  on  the  front  porch,  working  out  a 
somewhat  difficult  point  in  his  new  book,  when  it  had 
first  occurred  to  him  that  this  particular  terrace  would 
be  an  inspiring  and  appropriate  place  in  which  to  think 
the  matter  over,  undisturbed,  he  said.  And  it  was  im¬ 
possible  he  should  have  known  that  anyone  was  there, 
as  the  seventh  terrace  happens  to  be  the  only  one  that, 
being  planted  with  beech-trees,  is  completely  screened 
from  observation.  From  the  house,  you  cannot  see 
anything  that  happens  there. 

220 


s 


BYWAYS 


It  was  a  curious  accident,  though.  It  really  seemed, 
now  that  Patricia  had  put  an  ending  to  their  meetings 
in  the  maple-grove,  Fate  was  conspiring  to  bring 
them  together. 

However,  as  Mr.  Charteris  pointed  out,  there  could 
be  no  possible  objection  to  this  conspiracy,  since  they 
had  decided  that  their  friendship  was  to  be  of  a 
purely  platonic  nature.  It  was  a  severe  trial  to  him, 
he  confessed,  to  be  forced  to  put  aside  certain  dreams 
he  had  had  of  the  future — mad  dreams,  perhaps,  but 
such  as  had  seemed  very  dear  and  very  plausible  to 
his  impractical  artistic  temperament. 

Still,  it  heartened  him  to  hope  that  their  friend¬ 
ship — since  it  was  to  be  no  more — might  prove  a  sur¬ 
vival,  or  rather  a  veritable  renaissance,  of  the  beauti¬ 
ful  old  Greek  spirit  in  such  matters.  And,  though  the 
blind  chance  that  mismanaged  the  world  had  chained 
them  to  uncongenial,  though  certainly  well-meaning, 
persons,  this  was  no  logical  reason  why  he  and  Pa¬ 
tricia  should  be  deprived  of  the  pleasures  of  intel¬ 
lectual  intercourse.  Their  souls  were  too  closely  akin. 

For  Mr.  Charteris  admitted  that  his  soul  was  Gre¬ 
cian  to  the  core,  and  out  of  place  and  puzzled  and  very 
lonely  in  a  sordid,  bustling  world;  and  he  assured 
Patricia — she  did  not  object  if  he  called  her  Patricia? 
— that  her  own  soul  possessed  all  the  beauty  and  purity 
and  calm  of  an  Aphrodite  sculptured  by  Phidias.  It 
was  such  a  soul  as  Horace  might  have  loved,  as 
Theocritus  might  have  hymned  in  glad  Greek  song. 

Patricia  flushed,  and  dissented  somewhat. 


22 1 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


“Frankly,  mon  ami ”  she  said,  “you  are  far  too  at¬ 
tractive  for  your  company  to  be  quite  safe.  You  are 
such  an  adept  in  the  nameless  little  attentions  that 
women  love — so  profuse  with  lesser  sugar-plums  of 
speech  and  action — that  after  two  weeks  one’s  husband 
is  really  necessary  as  an  antidote.  Sugar-plums  are 
good,  but,  like  all  palatable  things,  unwholesome.  So 
I  shall  prescribe  Rudolph’s  company  for  myself,  to 
ward  off  an  attack  of  moral  indigestion.  I  am  very 
glad  he  has  come  back — really  glad,”  she  added,  con¬ 
scientiously.  “Poor  old  Rudolph!  what  between  his 
interminable  antiquities  and  those  demented  sections 
of  the  alphabet — What  are  those  things,  mon  ami , 
that  are  always  going  up  and  down  in  Wall  Street?” 

“Elevators?”  Mr.  Charteris  suggested. 

“Oh,  you  jay-bird!  I  mean  those  N.  P.’s  and  N. 
Y.  C.’s  and  those  other  letters  that  are  always  having 
flurries  and  panics  and  passed  dividends.  They  keep 
him  incredibly  busy.” 

And  she  sighed,  tolerantly.  Patricia  had  come 
within  the  last  two  weeks  to  believe  that  she  was 
neglected,  if  not  positively  ill-treated,  by  her  husband; 
and  she  had  no  earthly  objection  to  Mr.  Charteris 
thinking  likewise.  Her  face  expressed  patient  resig¬ 
nation  now,  as  they  walked  under  the  close-matted 
foliage  of  the  beech-trees,  which  made  a  pleasant, 
sun-flecked  gloom  about  them. 

Patricia  removed  her  hat — the  morning  really  was 
rather  close — and  paused  where  a  sunbeam  fell  upon 
her  copper-colored  hair,  and  glorified  her  wistful 

222 


BYWAYS 


countenance.  She  sighed  once  more,  and  added  a 
finishing  touch  to  the  portrait  of  a  femme  incomprise. 

“Pray,  don’t  think,  mon  ami  ”  she  said  very  ear¬ 
nestly,  “that  I  am  blaming  Rudolph!  I  suppose  no 
wife  can  ever  hope  to  have  any  part  in  her  husband’s 
inner  life.” 

“Not  in  her  own  husband’s,  of  course,”  said  Char- 
teris,  cryptically. 

“No,  for  while  a  woman  gives  her  heart  all  at 
once,  men  crumble  theirs  away,  as  one  feeds  bread 
to  birds — a  crumb  to  this  woman,  a  crumb  to  that — 1 
and  such  a  little  crumb,  sometimes!  And  his  wife 
gets  what  is  left  over.” 

“Pray,  where  did  you  read  that?”  said  Charteris. 

“I  didn’t  read  it  anywhere.  It  was  simply  a  thought 
that  came  to  me,”  Patricia  lied,  gently.  “But  don’t 
let’s  try  to  be  clever.  Cleverness  is  always  a  tax,  but 
before  luncheon  it  is  an  extortion.  Personally,  it 
makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had  attended  a  welsh-rabbit 
supper  the  night  before.  Your  wife  must  be  very  pa¬ 
tient.” 

“My  wife,”  cried  Charteris,  in  turn  resolved  to 
screen  an  unappreciative  mate,  “is  the  most  dear  and 
most  kind-hearted  among  the  Philistines.  And  yet, 
at  times,  I  grant  you - ” 

“Oh,  but,  of  course !”  Patricia  said  impatiently.  “I 
don’t  for  a  moment  question  that  your  wife  is  an 
angel.” 

“And  why?”  His  eyebrows  lifted,  and  he  smiled. 

“Why,  wasn’t  it  an  angel,”  Patricia  queried,  all 

223 


impishness  now,  “who  kept  the  first  man  and  woman 
out  of  paradise?” 

“If — if  I  thought  you  meant  that — * — !”  he  cried; 
and  then  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “My  wife’s  vir¬ 
tues  merit  a  better  husband  than  Fate  has  accorded 
her.  Anne  is  the  best  woman  I  have  ever  known.” 

Patricia  was  not  unnaturally  irritated.  After  all, 
one  does  not  take  the  trouble  to  meet  a  man  acciden¬ 
tally  in  a  plantation  of  young  beech-trees  in  order  to 
hear  him  discourse  of  his  wife’s  good  qualities;  and 
besides,  Mr.  Charteris  was  speaking  in  a  disagreeably 
solemn  manner,  rather  as  if  he  fancied  himself  in  a 
cathedral. 

Therefore  Patricia  cast  down  her  eyes  again,  and 
said : 

“Men  of  genius  are  so  rarely  understood  by  their 
wives.” 

“We  will  waive  the  question  of  genius.”  Mr. 
Charteris  laughed  heartily,  but  he  had  flushed  with 
pleasure. 

“I  suppose,”  he  continued,  pacing  up  and  down  with 
cat-like  fervor,  “that  matrimony  is  always  more  or 
less  of  a  compromise — like  two  convicts  chained  to¬ 
gether  trying  to  catch  each  other’s  gait.  After  a 
while,  they  succeed  to  a  certain  extent;  the  chain  is 
still  heavy,  of  course,  but  it  does  not  gall  them  as 
poignantly  as  it  used  to  do.  And  I  fear  the  artistic 
temperament  is  not  suited  to  marriage;  its  capacity 
for  suffering  is  too  great.” 

Mr.  Charteris  caught  his  breath  in  shuddering  fash- 
224 


BYWAYS 


ion,  and  he  paused  before  Patricia.  After  a  moment 
he  grasped  her  by  both  wrists. 

“We  are  chained  fast  enough,  my  lady,”  he  cried, 
bitterly,  “and  our  sentence  is  for  life!  There  are 
green  fields  yonder,  but  our  allotted  place  is  here  in  the 
prison-yard.  There  is  laughter  yonder  in  the  fields, 
and  the  scent  of  wild  flowers  floats  in  to  us  at  times 
when  we  are  weary,  and  the  whispering  trees  sway 
their  branches  over  the  prison-wall,  and  their  fruit  is 
good  to  look  on,  and  they  hang  within  reach — ah,  we 
might  reach  them  very  easily!  But  this  is  forbidden 
fruit,  my  lady;  and  it  is  not  included  in  our  wholesome 
prison-fare.  And  so  don’t  think  of  it!  We  have  been 
happy,  you  and  I,  for  a  little.  We  might — don’t 
think  of  it!  Don’t  dare  think  of  it!  Go  back  and 
help  your  husband  drag  his  chain;  it  galls  him  as 
sorely  as  it  does  you.  It  galls  us  all.  It  is  the  heav¬ 
iest  chain  was  ever  forged ;  but  we  do  not  dare  shake 
it  off!” 

“I — oh,  Jack,  Jack,  don’t  you  dare  to  talk  to  me 
like  that!  We  must  be  brave.  We  must  be  sen¬ 
sible.”  Patricia,  regardless  of  her  skirts,  sat  down 
upon  the  ground,  and  produced  a  pocket-handkerchief. 
“I — oh,  what  do  you  mean  by  making  me  so  un¬ 
happy?”  she  demanded,  indignantly. 

“Ah,  Patricia,”  he  murmured,  as  he  knelt  beside 
her,  “how  can  you  hope  to  have  a  man  ever  talk  to  you 
in  a  sane  fashion?  You  shouldn’t  have  such  eyes, 
Patricia!  They  are  purple  and  fathomless  like  the 
ocean,  and  when  a  man  looks  into  them  too  long 

225 


TH'E  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


his  sanity  grows  weak,  and  sinks  and  drowns  in  their 
cool  depths,  and  the  man  must  babble  out  his  foolish 
heart  to  you.  Oh,  but  indeed,  you  shouldn’t  have 
such  eyes,  Patricia!  They  are  dangerous,  and  to  ask 
anybody  to  believe  in  their  splendor  is  an  insult  to 
his  intelligence,  and  besides,  they  are  much  too  bright 
to  wear  in  the  morning.  They  are  bad  form,  Pa¬ 
tricia.” 

“We  must  be  sensible,”  she  babbled.  “Your  wife  is 
here;  my  husband  is  here.  And  we — we  aren’t  chil¬ 
dren  or  madmen,  Jack  dear.  So  we  really  must  be 
sensible,  I  suppose.  Oh,  Jack,”  she  cried,  upon  a 
sudden;  “this  isn’t  honorable!” 

“Why,  no !  Poor  little  Anne !” 

Mr.  Charteris’s  eyes  grew  tender  for  a  moment, 
because  his  wife,  in  a  fashion,  was  dear  to  him. 
Then  he  laughed,  very  musically. 

“And  how  can  a  man  remember  honor,  Patricia, 
when  the  choice  lies  between  honor  and  you?  You 
shouldn’t  have  such  hair,  Patricia!  It  is  a  net  spun 
out  of  the  raw  stuff  of  fire  and  blood  and  of  porten¬ 
tous  sunsets ;  and  its  tendrils  have  curled  around 
what  little  honor  I  ever  boasted,  and  they  hold  it 
fast,  Patricia.  It  is  dishonorable  to  love  you,  but  I 
cannot  think  of  that  when  I  am  with  you  and  hear 
you  speak.  And  when  I  am  not  with  you,  just  to  re¬ 
member  that  dear  voice  is  enough  to  set  my  pulses 
beating  faster.  Oh,  Patricia,  you  shouldn’t  have  such 
a  voice!” 

Charteris  broke  off  in  speech.  “  ’Scuse  me  for  in- 
226 


BYWAYS 


terruptin’,”  the  old  mulattress  Virginia  was  saying, 
“but  Mis’  Pilkins  sen’  me  say  lunch  raydy,  Miss 
Patrisy.” 

Virginia  seemed  to  notice  nothing  out-of-the-way. 
Having  delivered  her  message,  she  went  away  quietly, 
her  pleasant  yellow  face  as  imperturbable  as  an  idol’s. 
But  Patricia  shivered. 

“She  frightens  me,  mon  ami.  Yes,  that  old  woman 
always  gives  me  gooseflesh,  and  I  don’t  know  why — 
because  she  is  as  deaf  as  a  post — and  I  simply  can’t 
get  rid  of  her.  She  is  a  sort  of  symbol — she,  and 
how  many  others,  I  wonder!  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  let’s 
hurry.” 

So  Mr.  Charteris  was  never  permitted  to  finish  his 
complaint  against  Patricia’s  voice. 

It  was  absolutely  imperative  they  should  be  on 
time  for  luncheon;  for,  as  Patricia  pointed  out,  the 
majority  of  people  are  censorious  and  lose  no  oppor¬ 
tunity  for  saying  nasty  things.  They  are  even  capable 
of  sneering  at  a  purely  platonic  friendship  which  is 

attempting  to  preserve  the  beautiful  old  Greek  spirit. 

*  *  * 

She  was  chattering  either  of  her  plans  for  the 
autumn,  or  of  Dante  and  the  discovery  of  his  missing 
cantos,  or  else  of  how  abominably  Bob  Townsend  had 
treated  Rosalind  Jemmett,  and  they  had  almost 
reached  the  upper  terrace — little  Roger,  indeed,  his  red 
head  blazing  in  the  sunlight,  was  already  sidling  by 
shy  instalments  toward  them — when  Patricia  moaned 
inconsequently  and  for  no  ascertainable  cause  fainted. 

227 


It  was  the  first  time  for  four  years  she  had  been 
guilty  of  such  an  indiscretion,  she  was  shortly  after¬ 
ward  explaining  to  various  members  of  the  Musgraves’ 
house-party.  It  was  the  heat,  no  doubt.  But  since 
everybody  insisted  upon  it,  she  would  very  willingly 
toast  them  in  another  bumper  of  aromatic  spirits  of 
ammonia. 

“Just  look  at  that,  Rudolph!  you’ve  spilt  it  all  over 
your  coat  sleeve.  I  do  wish  you  would  try  to  be  a 
little  less  clumsy.  Oh,  well,  I’m  spruce  as  a  new 
penny  now.  So  let’s  all  go  to  luncheon.” 


\ 


228 


V 


PATRICIA  had  not  been  in  perfect  health  for  a 
long  while.  It  seemed  to  her,  in  retrospect, 
that  ever  since  the  agonies  of  little  Roger’s 
birth  she  had  been  the  victim  of  what  she  described 
as  “a  sort  of  all-overishness.”  Then,  too,  as  has  been 
previously  recorded,  Patricia  had  been  operated  upon 
by  surgeons,  and  more  than  once.  .  .  . 

“Good  Lord!”  as  she  herself  declared,  “it  has 
reached  the  point  that  when  I  see  a  turkey  coming  to 
the  dinner-table  to  be  carved  I  can’t  help  treating  it 
as  an  ingenue.” 

Yet  for  the  last  four  years  she  had  never  fainted, 
until  this.  It  disquieted  her.  Then,  too,  awoke  faint 
pricking  memories  of  certain  symptoms  .  .  .  which 
she  had  not  talked  about  .  .  . 

Now  they  alarmed  her;  and  in  consequence  she  took 
the  next  morning’s  train  to  Lichfield. 


229 


VI 


MRS.  ASHMEADE,  who  has  been  previously 
quoted,  now  comes  into  the  story.  She  is 
only  an  episode.  Still,  her  intervention  led 
to  peculiar  results — results,  curiously  enough,  in  which 
she  was  not  in  the  least  concerned.  She  simply  comes 
into  the  story  for  a  moment,  and  then  goes  out  of 
it;  but  her  part  is  an  important  one. 

She  is  like  the  watchman  who  announces  the  coming 
of  Agamemnon;  Clytemnestra  sharpens  her  ax  at  the 
news,  and  the  fatal  bath  is  prepared  for  the  cmax 
andron.  The  tragedy  moves  on;  the  house  of  Atreus 
falls,  and  the  wrath  of  implacable  gods  bellows  across 
the  heavens ;  meanwhile,  the  watchman  has  gone  home 
to  have  tea  with  his  family,  and  we  hear  no  more 
of  him.  There  are  any  number  of  morals  to  this. 

Mrs.  Ashmeade  comes  into  the  story  on  the  day 
Patricia  went  to  Lichfield,  and  some  weeks  after  John 
Charteris’s  arrival  at  Matocton.  Since  then,  affairs 
had  progressed  in  a  not  unnatural  sequence.  Mr. 
Charteris,  as  we  have  seen,  attributed  it  to  Fate;  and, 
assuredly,  there  must  be  a  special  providence  of  some 
230 


BYWAYS 


kind  that  presides  over  country  houses — a  freakish 
and  whimsical  providence,  which  hugely  rejoices  in 
confounding  one’s'  sense  of  time  and  direction. 

Through  its  agency,  people  unaccountably  lose  their 
way  in  the  simplest  walks,  and  turn  up  late  and  em¬ 
barrassed  for  luncheon.  At  the  end  of  the  evening,  it 
brings  any  number  of  couples  blinking  out  of  the  dark, 
with  no  idea  the  clock  was  striking  more  than  half-past 
nine. 

And  it  delights  in  sending  one  into  the  garden — in 
search  of  roses  or  dahlias  or  upas-trees  or  something 
of  the  sort,  of  course — and  thereby  causing  one  to 
encounter  the  most  unlikely  people,  and  really,  quite 
the  last  person  one  would  have  thought  of  meeting, 
as  all  frequenters  of  house-party  junketings  will  as¬ 
sure  you.  And  thus  is  this  special  house-party  provi¬ 
dence  responsible  for  a  great  number  of  marriages, 
and,  it  may  be,  for  a  large  percentage  of  the  divorce 
cases;  for,  if  you  desire  very  heartily  to  see  any¬ 
thing  of  another  member  of  a  house-party,  this  lax- 
minded  and  easy-going  providence  will  somehow  al¬ 
ways  bring  the  event  about  in  a  specious  manner,  and 
without  any  apparent  thought  of  the  consequences. 

And  the  Musgraves’  house-party  was  no  exception. 

Mrs.  Ashmeade,  for  reasons  of  her  own,  took  daily 
note  of  this.  The  others  were  largely  engrossed  by 
their  own  affairs ;  they  did  not  seriously  concern 
themselves  about  the  doings  of  their  fellow-guests. 
And,  besides,  if  John  Charteris  manifestly  sought  the 
company  of  Patricia  Musgrave,  her  husband  did  not 

231 


appear  to  be  exorbitantly  dissatisfied  or  angry  or  even 
lonely;  and,  be  this  as  it  might,  the  fact  remained 
that  Celia  Reindan  was  at  this  time  more  than  a 
little  interested  in  Teddy  Anstruther;  and  Felix  Ken- 
naston  was  undeniably  very  attentive  to  Kathleen 
Saumarez;  and  Tom  Gelwix  was  quite  certainly  de¬ 
voting  the  major  part  of  his  existence  to  sitting  upon 
the  beach  with  Rosalind  Jemmett. 

For,  in  Lichfield  at  all  events,  everyone’s  house 
has  at  least  a  pane  or  so  of  glass  in  it;  and,  if  in¬ 
discriminate  stone-throwing  were  ever  to  become  the 
fashion,  there  is  really  no  telling  what  damage  might 
ensue.  And  so  had  Mrs.  Ashmeade  been  a  younger 
woman — had  time  and  an  adoring  husband  not  ren¬ 
dered  her  as  immune  to  an  insanity  a  deux  as  any  of 
us  may  hope  to  be  upon  this  side  of  saintship  or  senil¬ 
ity — why,  Mrs.  Ashmeade  would  most  probably  have 
remained  passive,  and  Mrs.  Ashmeade  would  never 
have  come  into  this  story  at  all. 

As  it  was,  she  approached  Rudolph  Musgrave  with 
a  fixed  purpose  this  morning  as  he  smoked  an  after¬ 
breakfast  cigarette  on  the  front  porch  of  Matocton. 
And, 

“Rudolph,”  said  Mrs.  Ashmeade,  “are  you  blind?” 

“You  mean - ?”  he  asked,  and  he  broke  off,  for 

he  had  really  no  conception  of  what  she  meant. 

And  Mrs.  Ashmeade  said,  “I  mean  Patricia  and 
Charteris.  Did  you  think  I  was  by  any  chance  refer¬ 
ring  to  the  man  in  the  moon  and  the  Queen  of 
Sheba?” 

232 


BYWAYS 


■V 

- 


If  ever  amazement  showed  in  a  man’s  eyes,  it  shone 
now  in  Rudolph  Musgrave’s.  After  a  little,  the  pupils 
widened  in  a  sort  of  terror.  So  this  was  what  Clarice 
Pendomer  had  been  hinting  at. 

“Nonsense!”  he  cried.  “Why — why,  it  is  utter,  pre¬ 
posterous,  Bedlamite  nonsense!”  He  caught  his  breath 
in  wonder  at  the  notion  of  such  a  jest,  remembering 
a  little  packet  of  letters  hidden  in  his  desk.  “It — * 
oh,  no,  Fate  hasn’t  quite  so  fine  a  sense  of  humor  as 
that.  The  thing  is  incredible!”  Musgrave  laughed, 
and  flushed.  “I  mean - ■” 

“I  don’t  think  you  need  tell  me  what  you  mean,” 
said  Mrs.  Ashmeade.  She  sat  down  in  a  large  rock¬ 
ing-chair,  and  fanned  herself,  for  the  day  was  warm. 
“Of  course,  it  is  officious  and  presumptuous  and  dis¬ 
agreeable  of  me  to  meddle.  I  don’t  mind  your  think¬ 
ing  that.  But  Rudolph,  don’t  make  the  mistake  of 
thinking  that  Fate  ever  misses  a  chance  of  humiliat¬ 
ing  us  by  showing  how  poor  are  our  imaginations. 
The  gipsy  never  does.  She  is  a  posturing  mounte¬ 
bank,  who  thrives  by  astounding  humanity.” 

Mrs.  Ashmeade  paused,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of 
memories,  and  very  wise. 

“I  am  only  a  looker-on  at  the  tragic  farce  that  is 
being  played  here,”  she  continued,  after  a  little,  “but 
lookers-on,  you  know,  see  most  of  the  game.  They 
are  not  playing  fairly  with  you,  Rudolph.  When  peo¬ 
ple  set  about  an  infringement  of  the  Decalogue  they 
owe  it  to  their  self-respect  to  treat  with  Heaven  as  a 
formidable  antagonist.  To  mark  the  cards  is  not 

233 


enough.  They  are  not  playing  fairly,  my  dear,  and 
you  ought  to  know  it.” 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  porch  once  or  twice, 
with  his  hands  behind  him;  then  he  stopped  before 
Mrs.  Ashmeade,  and  smiled  down  at  her.  Without, 
many  locusts  shrilled  monotonously. 

“No,  I  do  not  think  you  are  officious  or  meddling  or 
anything  of  the  sort.  I  think  you  are  one,  of  the  best 
and  kindest-hearted  women  in  the  world.  But — bless 
your  motherly  soul,  Polly !  the  thing  is  utterly  prepos¬ 
terous.  Of  course,  Patricia  is  young,  and  likes  atten¬ 
tion,  and  it  pleases  her  to  have  men  admire  her.  That, 
Polly,  is  perfectly  natural.  Why,  you  wouldn’t  expect 
her  to  sit  around  under  the  trees,  and  read  poetry  with 
her  own  husband,  would  you?  We  have  been  married 
far  too  long  for  that,  Patricia  and  I.  She  thinks  me 
rather  prosy  and  stupid  at  times,  poor  girl,  because — 
well,  because,  in  point  of  fact,  I  am.  But,  at  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  her  heart - •  Oh,  it’s  preposterous !  We  are 

the  best  friends  in  the  world,  I  tell  you !  It  is  simply 
that  she  and  Jack  have  a  great  deal  in  common - ” 

“You  don’t  understand  John  Charteris.  I  do,”  said 
Mrs.  Ashmeade,  placidly.  “Charteris  is  simply  a  baby 
with  a  vocabulary.  His  moral  standpoint  is  entirely 
that  of  infancy.  It  would  be  ludicrous  to  describe 
him  as  selfish,  because  he  is  selfishness  incarnate.  I 
sometimes  believe  it  is  the  only  characteristic  the  man 
possesses.  He  reaches  out  his  hand  and  takes  what¬ 
ever  he  wants,  just  as  a  baby  would,  quite  simply, 
and  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  wants  your  wife  now, 
234 


BYWAYS 


and  he  is  reaching  out  his  hand  to  take  her.  He  prob¬ 
ably  isn’t  conscious  of  doing  anything  especially 
wrong;  he  is  always  so  plausible  in  whatever  he' 
does  that  he  ends  by  deceiving  himself,  I  suppose. 
For  he  is  always  plausible.  It  is  worse  than  useless  to 
argue  any  matter  with  him,  because  he  invariably 
ends  by  making  you  feel  as  if  you  had  been  caught 
stealing  a  hat.  The  only  argument  that  would  get 
the  better  of  John  Charteris  is  knocking  him  down, 
just  as  spanking  is  the  only  argument  which  ever  gets 
the  better  of  a  baby.  Yes,  he  is  very  like  a  baby — 
thoroughly  selfish  and  thoroughly  dependent  on  other 
people;  only,  he  is  a  clever  baby  who  exaggerates  his 
own  helplessness  in  order  to  appeal  to  women.  He 
has  a  taste  for  women.  And  women  naturally  like 
him,  for  he  impresses  them  as  an  irresponsible  child' 
astray  in  an  artful  and  designing  world.  They  want- 
to  protect  him.  Even  I  do,  at  times.  It  is  really  ma¬ 
ternal,  you  know;  we  would  infinitely  prefer  for  him 
to  be  soft  and  little,  so  that  we  could  pick  him  up, 
and  cuddle  him.  But  as  it  is,  he  is  dangerous.  He 
believes  whatever  he  tells  himself,  you  see.” 

Her  voice  died  away,  and  Mrs.  Ashmeade  fanned 
herself  in  the  fashion  addicted  by  perturbed  women 
who,  nevertheless,  mean  to  have  their  say  out — slowly 
and  impersonally,  and  quite  as  if  she  was  fanning 
some  one  else  through  motives  of  charity. 

“I  don’t  question,”  Musgrave  said,  at  length,  “that 
Jack  is  the  highly  estimable  character  you  describe. 
But — oh,  it  is  all  nonsense,  Polly!”  he  cried,  with 

235 


petulance,  and  with  a  tinge — if  but  the  merest  nuance 
— of  conviction  lacking  in  his  voice. 

The  fan  continued  its  majestic  sweep  from  the  shade 
into  the  sunlight,  and  back  again  into  the  shadow. 
Without,  many  locusts  shrilled  monotonously. 

“Rudolph,  I  know  what  you  meant  by  saying  that 
Fate  hadn’t  such  a  fine  sense  of  humor.” 

“My  dear  madam,  it  was  simply  thrown  out,  in  the 
heat  of  conversation — as  an  axiom - ” 

For  a  moment  the  fan  paused;  then  went  on  as 
before.  It  was  never  charged  against  Pauline  Ash- 
meade,  whatever  her  shortcomings,  that  she  was  given 
to  unnecessary  verbiage. 

Colonel  Musgrave  was  striding  up  and  down,  di¬ 
vided  between  a  disposition  to  swear  at  the  universe 
at  large  and  a  desire  to  laugh  at  it.  Somehow,  it 
did  not  occur  to  him  to  doubt  what  she  had  told  him. 
He  comprehended  now  that,  chafing  under  his  in¬ 
debtedness  in  the  affair  of  Mrs.  Pendomer,  Charteris 
would  most  naturally  retaliate  by  making  love  to  his 
benefactor’s  wife,  because  the  colonel  also  knew  John 
Charteris.  And  for  the  rest,  it  was  useless  to  struggle 
against  a  Fate  that  planned  such  preposterous  and 
elaborate  jokes;  one  might  more  rationally  depend  on 
Fate  to  work  out  some  both  ludicrous  and  horrible 
solution,  he  reflected,  remembering  a  little  packet  of 
letters  hidden  in  his  desk. 

Nevertheless,  he  paused  after  a  while,  and  laughed, 
with  a  tolerable  affectation  of  mirth. 

“I  say — 1 — and  what  in  heaven’s  name,  Polly, 
236 


BYWAYS 


prompted  you  to  bring  me  this  choice  specimen  of  a 
mare’s-nest  ?” 

“Because  I  am  fond  of  you,  I  suppose.  Isn’t  one 
always  privileged  to  be  disagreeable  to  one’s  friends? 
We  have  been  friends  a  long  while,  you  know.” 

Mrs.  Ashmeade  was  looking  out  over  the  river  now, 
but  she  seemed  to  see  a  great  way,  a  very  great  way, 
beyond  its  glaring  waters,  and  to  be  rather  uncertain 
as  to  whether  what  she  beheld  there  was  of  a  humor¬ 
ous  or  pathetic  nature. 

“Rudolph,  do  you  remember  that  evening — the  first 
summer  that  I  knew  you — at  Fortress  Monroe,  when 
we  sat  upon  the  pier  so  frightfully  late,  and  the  moon 
rose  out  of  the  bay,  and  made  a  great,  solid-looking, 
silver  path  that  led  straight  over  the  rim  of  the  world, 
and  you  talked  to  me  about — about  what,  now?” 

“Oh,  yes,  yes! — I  remember  perfectly!  One  of  the 
most  beautiful  evenings  I  ever  saw.  I  remember  it 
quite  distinctly.  I  talked — I — and  what,  in  the  Lord’s 
name,  did  I  talk  about,  Polly?” 

“Ah,  men  forget!  A  woman  never  forgets  when 
she  is  really  friends  with  a  man.  I  know  now  you 
were  telling  me  about  Anne  Charteris,  for  you  have 
been  in  love  with  her  all  your  life,  Rudolph,  in  your 
own  particular  half-hearted  and  dawdling  fashion. 
Perhaps  that  is  why  you  have  had  so  many  affairs. 
You  plainly  found  the  run  of  women  so  unimportant 
that  it  put  every  woman  on  her  pride  to  prove  she 
was  different.  Yes,  I  remember.  But  that  night  I 
thought  you  were  trying  to  make  love  to  me,  and  I 

237 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


was  disappointed  in  you,  and — yes,  rather  pleased. 
Women  are  all  vain  and  perfectly  inconsistent.  But 
then,  girl-children  always  take  after  their  fathers.” 

Mrs.  Ashmeade  rose  from  her  chair.  Her  fan  shut 
with  a  snap. 

“You  were  a  dear  boy,  Rudolph,  when  I  first  knew 
you — and  what  I  liked  was  that  you  never  made  love 
to  me.  Of  all  the  boys  I  have  known  and  helped  to 
form,  you  were  the  only  sensible  one — the  only  one 
who  never  presumed.  That  was  rather  clever  of  you, 
Rudolph.  It  would  have  been  ridiculous,  for  even 
arithmetically  I  am  older  than  you. 

“Wouldn’t  it  have  been  ridiculous,  Rudolph?”  she 
demanded,  suddenly. 

“Not  in  the  least,”  Musgrave  protested,  in  courteous 
wise.  “You — why,  Polly,  you  were  a  wonderfully 
handsome  woman.  Any  boy - ” 

“Oh,  yes ! — I  was.  I’m  not  now,  am  I,  Rudolph  ?” 
Mrs.  Ashmeade  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed 
naturally.  “Ah,  dear  boy  that  was,  it  is  unfair,  isn’t  it, 
for  an  old  woman  to  seize  upon  you  in  this  fashion, 
and  insist  on  your  making  love  to  her?  But  I  will  let 
you  off.  You  don’t  have  to  do  it.” 

She  caught  her  skirts  in  her  left  hand,  preparatory 
to  going,  and  her  right  hand  rested  lightly  on  his 
arm.  She  spoke  in  a  rather  peculiar  voice. 

“Yes,”  she  said,  “the  boy  was  a  very,  very  dear 
boy,  and  I  want  the  man  to  be  equally  brave  and — 
sensible.” 

Musgrave  stared  after  her.  “I  wonder — I  wonder 
238 


BYWAYS 


- ?  Oh,  no,  that  couldn’t  be,”  he  said,  and  wearily. 

“There  must  be  some  preposterous  situations  that 
don’t  come  about.” 

*  *  * 

And  afterward  he  strolled  across  the  lawn,  where 
the  locusts  were  shrilling,  as  if  in  a  stubborn  prediction 
of  something  which  was  inevitable,  and  he  meditated 
upon  a  great  number  of  things.  There  were  a  host 
of  fleecy  little  clouds  in  the  sky.  He  looked  up  at 
them,  interrogatively. 

And  then  he  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

“Yet  I  don’t  know,”  said  he;  “for  I  am  coming  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  world  is  run  on  an  extremely 
humorous  basis.” 

And  oddly  enough,  it  was  at  the  same  moment  that 
Patricia — in  Lichfield — reached  the  same  conclusion. 


239 


PART  SEVEN 


YOKED 


“We  are  as  time  moulds  us,  lacking  wherewithal 
To  shape  out  nobler  fortunes  or  contend 
Against  all-patient  Fates,  who  may  not  mend 
The  allotted  pattern  of  things  temporal 
Or  alter  it  a  jot  or  e’er  let  fall 
A  single  stitch  thereof,  until  at  last 
The  web  and  its  drear  weavers  be  overcast 
And  predetermined  darkness  swallow  all. 

“They  have  ordained  for  us  a  time  to  sing, 

A  time  to  love,  a  time  wherein  to  tire 
Of  all  spent  songs  and  kisses;  caroling 
Such  elegies  as  buried  dreams  require, 

Love  now  departs,  and  leaves  us  shivering 
Beside  the  embers  of  a  burned-out  fire.” 

Paul  Vanderhoffen.  Egeria  Answers . 


I 


THE  doctor’s  waiting-room  smelt  strongly  of 
antiseptics.  That  was  Patricia’s  predominat¬ 
ing  thought  as  she  wandered  aimlessly  about 
the  apartment.  She  fingered  its  dusty  furniture.  She 
remembered  afterward  the  steel-engraving  of  Jeffer¬ 
son  Davis  and  his  Cabinet,  with  General  Lee  explain¬ 
ing  some  evidently  important  matter  to  those  attentive 
and  unhumanly  stiff  politicians;  and  she  remembered, 
too,  how  in  depicting  one  statesman,  who  unavoidably 
sat  with  his  back  to  the  spectator,  the  artist  had  ex¬ 
ceeded  anatomical  possibilities  in  order  to  obtain  a 
recognizable  full-faced  portrait.  Yet  at  the  time  this 
picture  had  not  roused  her  conscious  attention. 

She  went  presently  to  the  long  table  austerely  deco¬ 
rated  with  two  rows  of  magazines,  each  partly  covered 
by  its  neighbor,  just  as  shingles  are  placed.  The  ar¬ 
rangement  irritated  her  unreasonably.  She  wanted  to 
disarrange  these  dog-eared  pamphlets,  to  throw  them 
on  the  floor,  to  destroy  them.  She  wondered  how 
many  other  miserable  people  had  tried  to  read  these 
hateful  books  while  they  waited  in  this  abominable 
room. 


243 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


She  started  when  the  door  of  the  consultation-room 
opened.  The  doctor  was  patting  the  silk  glove  of  a 
harassed-looking  woman  in  black  as  he  escorted  her  to 
the  outer  door,  and  was  assuring  her  that  everything 
was  going  very  well  indeed,  and  that  she  was  not  to 
worry,  and  so  on. 

And  presently  he  spoke  with  Patricia,  for  a  long 
while,  quite  levelly,  of  matters  which  it  is  not  suit¬ 
able  to  record.  Discreet  man  that  he  was,  Wendell 
Pemberton  could  not  entirely  conceal  his  wonder  that 
Patricia  should  have  remained  so  long  in  ignorance 
of  her  condition.  He  spoke  concerning  malformation 
and  functional  weaknesses  and,  although  obscurely 
because  of  the  bugbear  of  professional  courtesy, 
voiced  his  opinion  that  Patricia  had  not  received  the 
most  adroit  medical  treatment  at  the  time  of  little 
Roger’s  birth. 

She  was  dividedly  conscious  of  a  desire  to  laugh 
and  of  the  notion  that  she  must  remain  outwardly 
serious,  because  though  this  horrible  Pemberton  man 
was  talking  abject  nonsense,  she  would  presently  be 
having  him  as  a  dinner-guest. 

But  what  if  he  were  not  talking  nonsense?  The 
possibility,  considered,  roused  a  sensation  of  falling 
through  infinity. 

“Yes,  yes,”  Patricia  civilly  assented.  “These  young 
doctors  have  taken  this  out  of  me,  and  that  out  of 
me,  as  you  might  take  the  works  out  of  a  watch. 
And  it  has  done  no  good;  and  they  were  mistaken  in 
their  first  diagnoses,  because  what  they  took  for  true 
244 


YOKED 


osteomalacia  was  only — — •  Would  you  mind  telling 
me  again  ?  Oh,  yes ;  I  had  only  a  pseudo-osteomalacic 
rhachitic  pelvis,  to  begin  with.  To  think  of  any¬ 
body’s  being  mistaken  about  a  simple  little  trouble 
like  that!  And  I  suppose  I  was  just  born  with  it, 
like  my  mother  and  all  those  other  luckless  women 
with  Musgrave  blood  in  them?” 

“Fehling  and  Schliephake  at  least  consider  this  va¬ 
riety  of  pelvic  anomaly  to  be  congenital  in  the  major¬ 
ity  of  cases.  But,  without  going  into  the  question  of 
heredity  at  all,  I  think  it  only  fair  to  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Musgrave - ”  And  Pemberton  went  on  talking. 

Neither  of  the  two  showed  any  emotion. 

The  doctor  went  on  talking.  Patricia  did  not  listen. 
The  man  was  talking,  she  comprehended,  but  to  her 
his  words  seemed  blurred  and  indistinguishable.  “Like 
a  talking-machine  when  it  isn’t  wound  up  enough,” 
she  decided. 

Subconsciously  Patricia  was  thinking,  “You  have 
two  big  beads  of  perspiration  on  your  nose,  and  if  I 
were  to  allude  to  the  fact  you  would  very  probably 
die  of  embarrassment.” 

Aloud  Patricia  said :  “You  mean,  then,  that,  to 
cap  it  all,  a  functional  disorder  of  my  heart  has  be¬ 
come  organic,  so  that  I  would  inevitably  die  under 
another  operation?  or  even  at  a  sudden  shock?  ^And 
that  particular  operation  is  now  the  solitary  chance 
of  saving  my  life!  The  dilemma  is  neat,  isn’t  it? 
How  God  must  laugh  at  the  jokes  He  contrives,” 
said  Patricia.  “I  wish  that  I  could  laugh.  And  I  will. 

245 


I  don’t  care  whether  you  think  me  a  reprobate  or  not, 
Dr.  Pemberton,  I  want  a  good  stiff  drink  of  whiskey 
- — the  Musgrave  size.” 

He  gave  it  to  her. 


i 


246 


II 


PATRICIA  had  as  yet  an  hour  to  spend  in  Lich¬ 
field  before  her  train  left.  She  passed  it  in  the 
garden  of  her  own  home,  where  she  had  first 
seen  Rudolph  Musgrave  and  he  had  fought  with  Pev- 
ensey.  All  that  seemed  very  long  ago. 

The  dahlia  leaves,  she  noticed,  were  edged  with  yel¬ 
low.  She  must  look  to  it  that  the  place  was  more  fre¬ 
quently  watered;  and  that  the  bulbs  were  dug  up  in 
September.  Next  year  she  meant  to  set  the  dahlias 
thinly,  like  a  hedge.  .  .  . 

“Oh,  yes,  I  meant  to.  Only  I  won’t  be  alive  next 
year,”  she  recollected. 

She  went  about  the  garden  to  see  if  Ned  had 
weeded  out  the  wild-pea  vines- — a  pest  which  had  in¬ 
vaded  the  trim  place  lately.  Only  a  few  of  the  in¬ 
truders  remained,  burnt-out  and  withered  as  they  are 
annually  by  the  mid-summer  sun.  There  would  be 
no  more  fight  until  next  April. 

“Oh,  and  I  have  prayed  to  You,  I  have  always 
tried  to  do  what  You  wanted,  and  I  never  asked  You 
to  let  me  be  born  locked  up  in  a  good-for-nothing 

247 


Musgrave  body!  And  You  won’t  even  let  me  see  a 
wild-pea  vine  again !  That  isn’t  much  to  ask,  I  think. 
But  You  won’t  let  me  do  it.  You  really  do  have 
rather  funny  notions  about  Your  jokes.” 

She  began  to  laugh. 

“Oh,  very  well!”  Patricia  said  aloud.  “It  is  none 
of  my  affair  that  You  elect  to  run  Your  world  on  an 
extremely  humorous  basis.” 

She  was  at  Matocton  in  good  time  for  luncheon. 


248 


Ill 


COLONEL  MUSGRAVE  had  a  brief  interview 
with  his  wife  after  luncheon.  He  began  with 
quiet  remonstrance,  and  ended  with  an  un¬ 
heard  extenuation  of  his  presumption.  Patricia’s 
speech  on  this  occasion  was  of  an  unfettered  and 
heady  nature. 

“You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,”  she  said, 
when  she  had  finally  paused  for  breath,  and  had  wiped 
away  her  tears,  and  had  powdered  her  nose,  viciously, 
“to  bully  a  weak  and  defenseless  woman  in  this  way. 
I  dare  say  everybody  in  the  house  has  heard  us — 
brawling  and  squabbling  just  like  a  hod-carrier  and 
his  wife.  What’s  that?  You  haven’t  said  a  word  for 
fifteen  minutes?  Oh,  la,  la,  la!  well,  I  don’t  care. 
Anyhow,  I  have,  and  I  am  perfectly  sure  they  heard 
me,  and  I  am  sure  I  don’t  care  in  the  least,  and  it’s 
all  your  fault,  anyway.  Oh,  but  you  have  an  abomina¬ 
ble  nature,  Rudolph — a  mean  and  cruel  and  suspicious 
nature.  Your  bald-headed  little  Charteris  is  nothing 
whatever  to  me ;  and  I  would  have  been  quite  willing 
to  give  him  up  if  you  had  spoken  to  me  in  a  decent 

249 


manner  about  it.  You  only  said - ?  I  don’t  care 

what  you  said;  and  besides,  if  you  did  speak  to  me 
in  a  decent  manner,  it  simply  shows  that  your  thoughts 
were  so  horrid  and  vulgar  that  even  you  weren’t  so 
abandoned  as  to  dare  to  put  them  into  words.  Very 
well,  then,  I  won’t  be  seen  so  much  with  him  in  future. 
I  realize  you  are  quite  capable  of  beating  me  if  I 
don’t  give  way  to  your  absurd  prejudices.  Yes,  you 
are,  Rudolph;  you’re  just  the  sort  of  man  to  take 
pleasure  in  beating  a  woman.  After  the  exhibition  of 
temper  you’ve  given  this  afternoon,  I  believe  you  are 
capable  of  anything.  Hand  me  that  parasol!  Don’t 
keep  on  talking  to  me;  for  I  don’t  wish  to  hear  any¬ 
thing  you  have  to  say.  You’re  simply  driving  me  to 
my  grave  with  your  continual  nagging  and  abuse  and 
fault-finding.  I’m  sure  I  wish  I  were  dead  as  much 
as  you  do.  Is  my  hat  on  straight?  How  do  you 
expect  me  to  see  into  that  mirror  if  you  stand  directly 
in  front  of  it?  There!  not  content  with  robbing  me 
of  every  pleasure  in  life,  I  verily  believe  you  were 
going  to  let  me  go  downstairs  with  my  hat  cocked 
over  one  ear.  And  don’t  you  snort  and  look  at  me 
like  that.  I’m  not  going  to  meet  Mr.  Charteris.  I’m 
going  driving  with  Felix  Kennaston;  he  asked  me  at 
luncheon.  I  suppose  you’ll  object  to  him  next;  you 
object  to  all  my  friends.  Very  well!  Now  you’ve 
made  me  utterly  miserable  for  the  entire  afternoon, 
and  I’m  sure  I  hope  you  are  satisfied.” 

There  was  a  rustle  of  skirts,  and  the  door  slammed. 


250 


IV 


COLONEL  MUSGRAVE  went  to  his  own  room, 
where  he  spent  an  interval  in  meditation.  He 
opened  his  desk  and  took  out  a  small  packet 
of  papers,  some  of  which  he  read  listlessly.  How 
curiously  life  re-echoed  itself!  he  reflected,  for  here, 
again,  were  castby  love-letters  potent  to  breed  mis¬ 
chief  ;  and  his  talk  with  Polly  Ashmeade  had  been 
peculiarly  reminiscent  of  his  more  ancient  talk  with 
Clarice  Pendomer.  Everything  that  happened  seemed 
to  have  happened  before. 

But  presently  he  shook  his  head,  sighing.  Chance 
had  put  into  his  hands  a  weapon,  and  a  formidable 
weapon,  it  seemed  to  him,  but  the  colonel  did  not  care 
to  use  it.  He  preferred  to  strike  with  some  less 
grimy  cudgel. 

Then  he  rang  for  one  of  the  servants,  questioned 
him,  and  was  informed  that  Mr.  Charteris  had  gone 
down  to  the  beach  just  after  luncheon.  A  moment 
later,  Colonel  Musgrave  was  walking  through  the 
gardens  in  this  direction. 

As  he  came  to  the  thicket  which  screens  the  beach, 

251 


he  called  Charteris’s  name  loudly,  in  order  to  ascer¬ 
tain  his  whereabouts.  And  the  novelist’s  voice  an¬ 
swered — yet  not  at  once,  but  after  a  brief  silence. 
It  chanced  that,  at  this  moment,  Musgrave  had  come 
to  a  thin  place  in  the  thicket,  and  could  plainly  see 
Mr.  Charteris;  he  was  concealing  some  white  object  in 
the  hollow  of  a  log  that  lay  by  the  river.  A  little 
later,  Musgrave  came  out  upon  the  beach,  and  found 
Charteris  seated  upon  the  same  log,  an  open  book 
upon  his  knees,  and  looking  back  over  his  shoulder 
wonderingly. 

“Oh,”  said  John  Charteris,  “so  it  was  you,  Ru¬ 
dolph?  I  could  not  imagine  who  it  was  that  called.” 

“Yes — I  wanted  a  word  with  you,  Jack.” 

Now,  there  are  five  little  red-and-white  bath-houses 
upon  the  beach  at  Matocton;  the  nearest  of  them  was 
some  thirty  feet  from  Mr.  Charteris.  It  might  have 
been  either  imagination  or  the  prevalent  breeze,  but 
Musgrave  certainly  thought  he  heard  a  door  closing. 
Moreover,  as  he  walked  around  the  end  of  the  log, 
he  glanced  downward  as  in  a  casual  manner,  and  per¬ 
ceived  a  protrusion  which  bore  an  undeniable  resem¬ 
blance  to  the  handle  of  a  parasol.  Musgrave  whistled, 
though,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  he  was  not  sur¬ 
prised;  and  then,  he  sat  down  upon  the  log,  and  for  a 
moment  was  silent. 

“A  beautiful  evening,”  said  Mr.  Charteris. 

Musgrave  lighted  a  cigarette. 

“Jack,  I  have  something  rather  difficult  to  say  to 
you — yes,  it  is  deuced  difficult,  and  the  sooner  it  is 
252 


YOKED 


over  the  better.  I — why,  confound  it  all,  man!  I 
want  you  to  stop  making  love  to  my  wife.” 

Mr.  Charteris’s  eyebrows  rose.  “Really,  Colonel 
Musgrave - ”  he  began,  coolly. 

“Now,  you  are  about  to  make  a  scene,  you  know,” 
said  Musgrave,  raising  his  hand  in  protest,  “and  we 
are  not  here  for  that.  We  are  not  going  to  tear  any 
passions  to  tatters;  we  are  not  going  to  rant;  we  are 
simply  going  to  have  a  quiet  and  sensible  talk.  We 
don’t  happen  to  be  characters  in  a  romance;  for  you 
aren’t  Lancelot,  you  know,  and  I  am  not  up  to  the 
part  of  Arthur  by  a  great  deal.  I  am  not  angry,  I 
am  not  jealous,  nor  do  I  put  the  matter  on  any  high 
moral  grounds.  I  simply  say  it  won’t  do — no,  hang 
it,  it  won’t  do!” 

“I  dare  not  question  you  are  an  authority  in  such 
matters,”  said  John  Charteris,  sweetly — “since  among 
many  others,  Clarice  Pendomer  is  near  enough  to  be 
an  obtainable  witness.” 

Colonel  Musgrave  grimaced.  “But  what  a  gesture !” 
he  thought,  half-enviously.  Jack  Charteris,  quite  cer¬ 
tainly,  meant  to  make  the  most  of  the  immunity  Mus¬ 
grave  had  purchased  for  him.  None  the  less,  Mus¬ 
grave  had  now  his  cue.  Patricia  must  be  listening. 

And  so  what  Colonel  Musgrave  said  was:  “Put 
it  that  a  burnt  child  dreads  the  fire — is  that  a  reason 
he  should  not  warn  his  friends  against  it?” 

“At  least,”  said  Charteris  at  length,  “you  are  com- 
mendably  frank.  I  appreciate  that,  Rudolph.  I  hon¬ 
estly  appreciate  the  fact  you  have  come  to  me,  not  as 

253 


the  husband  of  that  fiction  in  which  kitchen-maids 
delight,  breathing  fire  and  speaking  balderdash,  but 
as  one  sensible  man  to  another.  Let  us  be  frank, 
then;  let  us  play  with  the  cards  upon  the  table.  You 
have  charged  me  with  loving  your  wife;  and  I  answer 
you  frankly — I  do.  She  does  me  the  honor  to  re¬ 
turn  this  affection.  What,  then,  Rudolph?” 

Musgrave  blew  out  a  puff  of  smoke.  “ I  don’t  espe¬ 
cially  mind,”  he  said,  slowly.  “According  to  tradition, 
of  course,  I  ought  to  spring  at  your  throat  with  a 
smothered  curse.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don’t 
see  why  I  should  be  irritated.  No,  in  common  rea¬ 
son,”  he  added,  upon  consideration,  “I  am  only  rather 
sorry  for  you  both.” 

Mr.  Charteris  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  beach.  “Ah,  you  hide  your  feelings 
well,”  he  cried,  and  his  laughter  was  a  trifle  unconvinc¬ 
ing  and  a  bit  angry.  “But  it  is  unavailing  with  me. 
I  know!  I  know  the  sick  and  impotent  hatred  of  me 
that  is  seething  in  your  heart;  and  I  feel  for  you  the 
pity  you  pretend  to  entertain  toward  me.  Yes,  I  pity 
you.  But  what  would  you  have?  Frankly,  while  in 
many  ways  an  estimable  man,  you  are  no  fit  mate  for 
Patricia.  She  has  the  sensitive,  artistic  temperament, 
poor  girl;  and  only  we  who  are  cursed  with  it  can 
tell  you  what  its  possession  implies.  And  you — since 
frankness  is  the  order  of  the  day,  you  know — well, 
you  impress  me  as  being  a  trifle  inadequate.  It  is 
not  your  fault,  perhaps,  but  the  fact  remains  that  you 
have  never  amounted  to  anything  personally.  You 
254 


YOKED 


have  simply  traded  upon  the  accident  of  being  born 
a  Musgrave  of  Matocton.  In  consequence  you  were 
enabled  to  marry  Patricia’s  money,  just  as  the  Mus- 
graves  of  Matocton  always  marry  some  woman  who 
is  able  to  support  them.  Ah,  but  it  was  her  money 
you  married,  and  not  Patricia!  Any  community  of 
interest  between  you  was  impossible,  and  is  radically 
impossible.  Your  marriage  was  a  hideous  mistake, 
just  as  mine  was.  For  you  are  starving  her  soul, 
Rudolph,  just  as  Anne  has  starved  mine.  And  now, 
at  last,  when  Patricia  and  I  have  seen  our  single 
chance  of  happiness,  we  cannot — no!  we  cannot  and 
we  will  not — defer  to  any  outworn  tradition  or  to 
fear  of  Mrs.  Grundy’s  narrow-minded  prattle!” 

Charter  is  swept  aside  the  dogmas  of  the  world  with 
an  indignant  gesture  of  somewhat  conscious  nobility; 
and  he  turned  to  his  companion  in  an  attitude  of  de¬ 
fiance. 

Musgrave  was  smiling.  He  smoked  and  seemed  to 
enjoy  his  cigarette. 

The  day  was  approaching  sunset.  The  sun,  a  glow¬ 
ing  ball  of  copper,  hung  low  in  the  west  over  a  ram¬ 
part  of  purple  clouds,  whose  heights  were  smeared 
with  red.  A  slight,  almost  imperceptible,  mist  rose 
from  the  river,  and,  where  the  horizon  should  have 
been,  a  dubious  cloudland  prevailed.  Far  to  the  west 
were  orange-colored  quiverings  upon  the  stream’s  sur¬ 
face,  but,  nearer,  the  river  dimpled  with  silver-tipped 
waves ;  and,  at  their  feet,  the  water  grew  transparent, 
and  splashed  over  the  sleek,  brown  sand,  and  sucked 

255 


back,  leaving  a  curved  line  of  bubbles  which,  one  by 
one,  winked,  gaped  and  burst.  There  was  a  drowsy 
peacefulness  in  the  air;  behind  them,  among  the 
beeches,  were  many  stealthy  wood-sounds;  and,  at 
long  intervals,  a  sleepy,  peevish  twittering  went  about 
the  nested  trees. 

In  Colonel  Musgrave’s  face,  the  primal  peace  was 
mirrored. 

“May  I  ask,”  said  he  at  length,  “what  you  propose 
doing?” 

Mr.  Charteris  answered  promptly.  “I,  of  course, 
propose,”  said  he,  “to  ask  Patricia  to  share  the  re¬ 
mainder  of  my  life.” 

“A  euphemism,  as  I  take  it,  for  an  elopement.  I 
hardly  thought  you  intended  going  so  far.” 

“Rudolph !”  cried  Charteris,  drawing  himself  to  his 
full  height — and  he  was  not  to  blame  for  the  fact 
that  it  was  but  five-feet-six — “I  am,  I  hope,  an  hon¬ 
orable  man!  I  cannot  eat  your  salt  and  steal  your 
honor.  So  I  loot  openly,  or  not  at  all.” 

The  colonel  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

“I  presuppose  you  have  counted  the  cost — and  esti¬ 
mated  the  necessary  breakage?” 

“True  love,”  the  novelist  declared,  in  a  hushed, 
sweet  voice,  “is  above  such  considerations.” 

“I  think,”  said  Musgrave  slowly,  “that  any  love 
worthy  of  the  name  will  always  appraise  the  cost — to 
the  woman.  It  is  of  Patricia  I  am  thinking.” 

“She  loves  me,”  Charteris  murmured.  He  glanced 
up  and  laughed.  “Upon  my  soul,  you  know,  I  can- 
256 


YOKED 


not  help  thinking  the  situation  a  bit  farcical— you  and 
I  talking  over  matters  in  this  fashion.  But  I  honestly 
believe  the  one  chance  of  happiness  for  any  of  us 
hinges  on  Patricia  and  me  chucking  the  whole  affair, 
and  bolting.,, 

“No!  it  won’t  do — no,  hang  it,  Jack,  it  will  not 
do!”  Musgrave  glanced  toward  the  bath-house,  and 
he  lifted  his  voice.  “I  am  not  considering  you  in 
the  least — and  under  the  circumstances,  you  could 
hardly  expect  me  to.  It  is  of  Patricia  I  am  thinking. 
I  haven’t  made  her  altogether  happy.  Our  marriage 
was  a  mating  of  incongruities — and  possibly  you  are 
justified  in  calling  it  a  mistake.  Yet,  day  in  and  day 
out,  I  think  we  get  along  as  well  together  as  do  most 
couples ;  and  it  is  wasting  time  to  cry  over  spilt  milk. 
Instead,  it  rests  with  us,  the  two  men  who  love  her,  to 
decide  what  is  best  for  Patricia.  It  is  she  and  only 
she  we  must  consider.” 

“Ah,  you  are  right!”  said  Charteris,  and  his  eyes 
grew  tender.  “She  must  have  what  she  most  desires ; 
and  all  must  be  sacrificed  to  that.”  He  turned  and 
spoke  as  simply  as  a  child.  “Of  course,  you  know, 
I  shall  be  giving  up  a  great  deal  for  love  of  her,  but 
— I  am  willing.” 

Musgrave  looked  at  him  for  a  moment.  “H’m. 
doubtless,”  he  assented.  “Why,  then,  we  won’t  con¬ 
sider  the  others.  We  will  not  consider  your  wife, 
who — who  worships  you.  We  won’t  consider  the 
boy.  I,  for  my  part,  think  it  is  a  mother’s  duty  to 
leave  an  unsullied  name  to  her  child,  but,  probably, 

25  7 


my  ideas  are  bourgeois.  We  won’t  consider  Patricia’s 
relatives,  who,  perhaps,  will  find  it  rather  unpleasant. 
In  short,  we  must  consider  no  one  save  Patricia.” 

“Of  course,  one  cannot  make  an  omelet  without 
breaking  a  few  eggs.” 

“No;  the  question  is  whether  it  is  absolutely  neces¬ 
sary  to  make  the  omelet.  I  say  no.” 

“And  I,”  quoth  Charteris  smiling  gently,  “say  yes.” 

“For  Patricia,”  Musgrave  went  on,  as  in  meditation, 
but  speaking  very  clearly,  “it  means  giving  up — every¬ 
thing.  It  means  giving  up  her  friends  and  the  life  to 
which  she  is  accustomed;  it  means  being  ashamed  to 
face  those  who  were  formerly  her  friends.  We,  the 
world,  our  world  of  Lichfield,  I  mean — are  lax  enough 
as  to  the  divorce  question,  heaven  knows,  but  we 
can’t  pardon  immorality  when  coupled  with  poverty. 
And  you  would  be  poor,  you  know.  Your  books  are 
tremendously  clever,  Jack,  but — as  I  happen  to  know 
— the  proceeds  from  them  would  not  support  two  peo¬ 
ple  in  luxury ;  and  Patricia  has  nothing.  That  is  a  sor¬ 
did  detail,  of  course,  but  it  is  worth  considering.  Pa¬ 
tricia  would  never  be  happy  in  a  three-pair  back.” 

Mr.  Charteris  was  frankly  surprised.  “Patricia  has 
— nothing?” 

“Bless  your  soul,  of  course  not!  Her  father  left 
the  greater  part  of  his  money  to  our  boy,  you  know. 
Most  of  it  is  still  held  in  trust  for  our  boy,  who  is 
named  after  him.  Not  a  penny  of  it  belongs  to  Pa¬ 
tricia,  and  even  I  cannot  touch  anything  but  a  certain 
amount  of  interest.” 

258 


YOKED 


Mr.  Charteris  looked  at  the  colonel  with  eyes  that 
were  sad  and  hurt  and  wistful.  “I  am  perfectly  aware 
of  your  reason  for  telling  me  this,”  he  said,  candidly. 
“I  know  I  have  always  been  thought  a  mercenary  man 
since  my  marriage.  At  that  time  I  fancied  myself  too 
much  in  love  with  Anne  to  permit  any  sordid  consid¬ 
erations  of  fortune  to  stand  in  the  way  of  our  union. 
Poor  Anne!  she  little  knows  what  sacrifices  I  have 
made  for  her!  She,  too,  would  be  dreadfully  unhappy 
if  I  permitted  her  to  realize  that  our  marriage  was 
a  mistake.” 

“God  help  her — yes !”  groaned  Musgrave. 

“And  as  concerns  Patricia,  you  are  entirely  right. 
It  would  be  hideously  unfair  to  condemn  her  to  a  life 
of  comparative  poverty.  My  books  sell  better  than 
you  think,  Rudolph,  but  still  an  author  cannot  hope  to 
attain  affluence  so  long  as  he  is  handicapped  by  any 
reverence  for  the  English  language.  Yes,  I  was  about 
to  do  Patricia  a  great  wrong.  I  rejoice  that  you 
have  pointed  out  my  selfishness.  For  I  have  been 
abominably  selfish.  I  confess  it.” 

“I  think  so,”  assented  Musgrave,  calmly.  “But, 
then,  my  opinion  is,  naturally,  rather  prejudiced.” 

“Yes,  I  can  understand  what  Patricia  must  mean  to 
you” — Mr.  Charteris  sighed,  and  passed  his  hand  over 
his  forehead  in  a  graceful  fashion, — “and  I,  also,  love 
her  far  too  dearly  to  imperil  her  happiness.  I  think 
that  heaven  never  made  a  woman  more  worthy  to  be 
loved.  And  I  had  hoped — ah,  well,  after  all,  we  can¬ 
not  utterly  defy  society!  Its  prejudices,  however  un- 

259 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


founded,  must  be  respected.  What  would  you  have? 
This  dunderheaded  giantess  of  a  Mrs.  Grundy  con¬ 
demns  me  to  be  miserable,  and  I  am  powerless.  The 
utmost  I  can  do  is  to  refrain  from  whining  over  the 
unavoidable.  And,  Rudolph,  you  have  my  word  of 
honor  that  henceforth  I  shall  bear  in  mind  more  con¬ 
stantly  my  duty  toward  one  of  my  best  and  oldest 
friends.  I  have  not  dealt  with  you  quite  honestly.  I 
confess  it,  and  I  ask  your  pardon.”  Mr.  Charteris 
held  out  his  hand  to  seal  the  compact. 

“Word  of  honor?”  queried  Colonel  Musgrave,  with 
an  odd  quizzing  sort  of  fondness  for  the  little  novel¬ 
ist,  as  the  colonel  took  the  proffered  hand.  “Why, 
then,  that  is  settled,  and  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  told  you, 
you  know,  it  wouldn’t  do.  See  you  at  supper,  I  sup¬ 
pose?” 

And  Rudolph  Musgrave  glanced  at  the  bath-house, 
turned  on  his  heel,  and  presently  plunged  into  the 
beech  plantation,  whistling  cheerfully.  The  effect  of 
the  melody  was  somewhat  impaired  by  the  apparent 
necessity  of  breaking  off,  at  intervals,  in  order  to  smile. 

The  comedy  had  been  admirably  enacted,  he  con¬ 
sidered,  on  both  sides;  and  he  did  not  object  to  Jack 
Charteris’s  retiring  with  all  the  honors  of  war. 


260 


V 


THE  colonel  had  not  gone  far,  however,  before 
he  paused,  thrust  both  hands  into  his  trousers' 
pockets,  and  stared  down  at  the  ground  for 
a  matter  of  five  minutes. 

Musgrave  shook  his  head.  “After  all,”  said  he, 
“I  can’t  trust  them.  Patricia  is  too  erratic  and  too 
used  to  having  her  own  way.  Jack  will  try  to  break 
off  with  her  now,  of  course;  but  Jack,  where  women 
are  concerned,  is  as  weak  as  water.  It  is  not  a  nice 
thing  to  do,  but — well !  one  must  fight  fire  with  fire.” 

Thereupon,  he  retraced  his  steps.  When  he  had 
come  to  the  thin  spot  in  the  thicket,  Rudolph  Mus¬ 
grave  left  the  path,  and  entered  the  shrubbery.  There 
he  composedly  sat  down  in  the  shadow  of  a  small 
cedar.  The  sight  of  his  wife  upon  the  beach  in  con¬ 
verse  with  Mr.  Charteris  did  not  appear  to  surprise 
Colonel  Musgrave. 

Patricia  was  speaking  quickly.  She  held  a  be¬ 
draggled  parasol  in  one  hand.  Her  husband  noted, 
with  a  faint  thrill  of  wonder,  that,  at  times,  and  in  a 
rather  unwholesome,  elfish  way,  Patricia  was  actually 

2611 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


beautiful.  Her  big  eyes  glowed;  they  flashed  with 
changing  lights  as  deep  waters  glitter  in  the  sun;  her 
copper-colored  hair  seemed  luminous,  and  her  cheeks 
flushed,  arbutus-like.  The  soft,  white  stuff  that 
gowned  her  had  the  look  of  foam;  against  the  gray 
sky  she  seemed  a  freakish  spirit  in  the  act  of  vanish¬ 
ing.  For  sky  and  water  were  all  one  lambent  gray 
by  this.  In  the  west  was  a  thin  smear  of  orange;  but, 
for  the  rest,  the  world  was  of  a  uniform  and  gleaming 
gray.  She  and  Charter  is  stood  in  the  heart  of  a  great 
pearl. 

“Ah,  believe  me,”  she  was  saying,  “Rudolph  isn’t 
an  ophthalmic  bat.  But  God  keep  us  all  respectable! 
is  Rudolph’s  notion  of  a  sensible  morning-prayer.  So 
he  just  preferred  to  see  nothing  and  bleat  out  edifying 
axioms.  That  is  one  of  his  favorite  tricks.  No,  it 
was  a  comedy  for  my  benefit,  I  tell  you.  He  will  allow 
a  deal  for  the  artistic  temperament,  no  doubt,  but 
he  doesn’t  suppose  you  fetch  along  a  white-lace  para¬ 
sol  when  you  go  to  watch  a  sunset — especially  a  para¬ 
sol  he  gave  me  last  month.” 

“Indeed,”  protested  Mr.  Charteris,  “he  saw  nothing. 
I  was  too  quick  for  him.” 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  “I  saw  him  looking 
at  it.  Accordingly,  I  paid  no  attention  to  what  he  said. 
But  you — ah,  Jack,  you  were  splendid!  I  suppose 
we  shall  have  to  elope  at  once  now,  though?” 

Charteris  gave  her  no  immediate  answer.  “I  am 
not  quite  sure,  Patricia,  that  your  husband  is  not — • 
to  a  certain  extent — in  the  right.  Believe  me,  he  did 
262 


YOKED 


not  know  you  were  about.  He  approached  me  in  a 
perfectly  sensible  manner,  and  exhibited  commendable 
self-restraint;  he  has  played  a  difficult  part  to  ad¬ 
miration.  I  could  not  have  done  it  better  myself. 
And  it  is  not  for  us  who  have  been  endowed  with 
gifts  denied  to  Rudolph,  to  reproach  him  for  lacking 
the  finer  perceptions  and  sensibilities  of  life.  Yet,  I 
must  admit  that,  for  the  time,  I  was  a  little  hurt  by  his 
evident  belief  that  we  would  allow  our  feeling  for  each 
Other — which  is  rather  beyond  his  comprehension, 
isn’t  it,  dear? — to  be  coerced  by  mercenary  considera¬ 
tions.” 

“Oh,  Rudolph  is  just  a  jackass-fool,  anyway.”  She 
was  not  particularly  interested  in  the  subject. 

“He  can’t  help  that,  you  know,”  Charteris  reminded 
her,  gently;  then,  he  asked,  after  a  little:  “I  suppose 
it  is  all  true?” 

“That  what  is  true  ?” 

“About  your  having  no  money  of  your  own?”  He 
laughed,  but  she  could  see  how  deeply  he  had  been 
pained  by  Musgrave’s  suspicions.  “I  ask,  because,  as 
your  husband  has  discovered,  I  am  utterly  sordid,  my 
lady,  and  care  only  for  your  wealth.” 

“Ah,  how  can  you  expect  a  man  like  that  to  under¬ 
stand — you?  Why,  Jack,  how  ridiculous  in  you  to  be 
hurt  by  what  the  brute  thinks!  You’re  as  solemn  as 
an  owl,  my  dear.  Yes,  it’s  true  enough.  My  father 
was  not  very  well  pleased  with  us — and  that  horrid 
will — Ah,  Jack,  Jack,  how  grotesque,  how  characteris¬ 
tic  it  was,  his  thinking  such  things  would  influence 

263 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


you — you,  of  all  men,  who  scarcely  know  what  money 
is!” 

“It  was  even  more  grotesque  I  should  have  been 
pained  by  his  thinking  it,”  Charteris  said,  sadly.  “But 
what  would  you  have?  I  am  so  abominably  in  love 
with  you  that  it  seemed  a  sort  of  desecration  when  the 
man  lugged  your  name  into  a  discussion  of  money- 
matters.  It  really  did.  And  then,  besides — ah,  my 
lady,  you  know  that  I  would  glory  in  the  thought  that 
I  had  given  up  all  for  you.  You  know,  I  think,  that 
I  would  willingly  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  just 
that  I  might  possess  you  always.  So  I  had  dreamed  of 
love  in  a  cottage — an  idyl  of  blissful  poverty,  where 
Cupid  contents  himself  with  crusts  and  kisses,  and 
mocks  at  the  proverbial  wolf  on  the  doorstep.  And 
I  give  you  my  word  that  until  to-day  I  had  not  sus¬ 
pected  how  blindly  selfish  I  have  been!  For  poor  old 
prosaic  Rudolph  is  in  the  right,  after  all.  Your  deli¬ 
cate,  tender  beauty  must  not  be  dragged  down  to  face 
the  unlovely  realities  and  petty  deprivations  and 
squalid  makeshifts  of  such  an  existence  as  ours  would 
be.  True,  I  would  glory  in  them — ah,  luxury  and 
riches  mean  little  to  me,  my  dear,  and  I  can  conceive 
of  no  greater  happiness  than  to  starve  with  you.  But 
true  love  knows  how  to  sacrifice  itself.  Your  husband 
was  right;  it  would  not  be  fair  to  you,  Patricia.” 

“You — you  are  going  to  leave  me?” 

“Yes;  and  I  pray  that  I  may  be  strong  enough  to 
relinquish  you  forever,  because  your  welfare  is  more 
dear  to  me  than  my  own  happiness.  No,  I  do  not  pre- 
264 


YOKED 


tend  that  this  is  easy  to  do.  But  when  my  misery 
is  earned  by  serving  you  I  prize  my  misery.”  Char- 
teris  tried  to  smile.  “What  would  you  have?  I 
love  you,”  he  said,  simply. 

“Ah,  my  dear !”  she  cried. 

Musgrave’s  heart  was  sick  within  him  as  he  heard 
the  same  notes  in  her  voice  that  echoed  in  Anne's 
voice  when  she  spoke  of  her  husband.  This  was  a 
new  Patricia;  her  speech  was  low  and  gentle  now, 
and  her  eyes  held  a  light  Rudolph  Musgrave  had  not 
seen  there  for  a  long  while. 

“Ah,  my  dear,  you  are  the  noblest  man  I  have  ever 
known ;  I  wish  we  women  could  be  like  men.  But,  oh, 
Jack,  Jack,  don’t  be  quixotic!  I  can’t  give  you  up, 
my  dear — that  would  never  be  for  my  good.  Think 
how  unhappy  I  have  been  all  these  years;  think  how 
Rudolph  is  starving  my  soul!  I  want  to  be  free, 
Jack;  I  want  to  live  my  own  life, — for  at  least  a 
month  or  so - ” 

Patricia  shivered  here.  “But  none  of  us  is  sure  of 
living  for  a  month.  You’ve  shown  me  a  glimpse  of 
what  life  might  be;  don’t  let  me  sink  back  into  the 
old,  humdrum  existence  from  a  foolish  sense  of 
honor !  I  tell  you,  I  should  go  mad !  I  mean  to  have 
my  fling  while  I  can  get  it.  And  I  mean  to  have  it 
with  you,  Jack — just  you!  I  don’t  fear  poverty.  You 
could  write  some  more  wonderful  books.  I  could 
work,  too,  Jack  dear.  I — I  could  teach  music — or 
take  in  washing — or  something,  anyway.  Lots  of 
women  support  themselves,  you  know.  Oh,  Jack,  we 

265 


would  be  so  happy!  Don’t  be  honorable  and  brave 
and  disagreeable,  Jack  dear!” 

For  a  moment  Charter  is  was  silent.  The  nostrils  of 
his  beak-like  nose  widened  a  little,  and  a  curious  look 
came  into  his  face.  He  discovered  something  in  the 
sand  that  interested  him. 

“After  all,”  he  demanded,  slowly,  “is  it  necessary — 
to  go  away — to  be  happy?” 

“I  don’t  understand.”  Her  hand  lifted  from  his 
arm;  then  quick  remorse  smote  her,  and  it  fluttered 
back,  confidingly. 

Charteris  rose  to  his  feet.  “It  is,  doubtless,  a 
very  spectacular  and  very  stirring  performance  to 
cast  your  cap  over  the  wind-mill  in  the  face  of  the 
world;  but,  after  all,  is  it  not  a  bit  foolish,  Patricia? 
Lots  of  people  manage  these  things — more  quietly.” 

“Oh,  Jack!”  Patricia’s  face  turned  red,  then  white, 
and  stiffened  in  a  sort  of  sick  terror.  She  was  a 
frightened  Columbine  in  stone.  “I  thought  you  cared 
for  me — really,  not — that  way.” 

Patricia  rose  and  spoke  with  composure.  “I  think 
I’ll  go  back  to  the  house,  Mr.  Charteris.  It’s  a  bit 
chilly  here.  You  needn’t  bother  to  come.” 

Then  Mr.  Charteris  laughed — a  choking,  sobbing 
laugh.  He  raised  his  hands  impotently  toward 
heaven.  “And  to  think,”  he  cried,  “to  think  that  a 
man  may  love  a  woman  with  his  whole  heart — with  all 
that  is  best  and  noblest  in  him — and  she  understand 
him  so  little!” 

“I  do  not  think  I  have  misunderstood  you,”  Patricia 
266 


YOKED 


said,  in  a  crisp  voice.  “Your  proposition  was  very 
explicit.  I — am  sorry.  I  thought  I  had  found  one 
thing  in  the  world  which  I  would  regret  to  leave — * — ” 

“And  you  really  believed  that  I  could  sully  the  great 
love  I  bear  you  by  stooping  to — that!  You  really 
believed  that  I  would  sacrifice  to  you  my  home  life, 
my  honor,  my  prospects — all  that  a  man  can  give — * 
without  testing  the  quality  of  your  love !  You  did  not 
know  that  I  spoke  to  try  you — you  actually  did  not 
know!  Eh,  but  yours  is  a  light  nature,  Patricia!  I 
do  not  reproach  you,  for  you  are  only  as  your  nar¬ 
row  Philistine  life  has  made  you.  Yet  I  had  hoped 
better  things  of  you,  Patricia.  But  you,  who  pretend 
to  care  for  me,  have  leaped  at  your  first  opportunity 
to  pain  me — and,  if  it  be  any  comfort  to  you,  I  con¬ 
fess  you  have  pained  me  beyond  words.”  And  he 
sank  down  on  the  log,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

She  came  to  him — it  was  pitiable  to  see  how  she 
came  to  him,  laughing  and  sobbing  all  in  one  breath 
— and  knelt  humbly  by  his  side,  and  raised  a  grieved, 
shamed,  penitent  face  to  his. 

“Forgive  me!”  she  wailed;  “oh,  forgive  me!” 

“You  have  pained  me  beyond  words,  Patricia,”  he 
repeated.  He  was  not  angry — only  sorrowful  and 
very  much  hurt. 

“Ah,  Jack!  dear  Jack,  forgive  me!” 

Mr.  Charteris  sighed.  “But,  of  course,  I  forgive 
you,  Patricia,”  he  said.  “I  cannot  help  it,  though, 
that  I  am  foolishly  sensitive  where  you  are  con¬ 
cerned.  And  I  had  hoped  you  knew  as  much.” 

267 


She  was  happy  now.  “Dear  boy/’  she  murmured, 
“don't  you  see  it's  just  these  constant  proofs  of  the 
greatness  and  the  wonderfulness  of  your  love — Really, 
though,  Jack,  wasn't  it  too  horrid  of  me  to  misunder¬ 
stand  you  so  ?  Are  you  quite  sure  you’re  forgiven  me 
entirely — without  any  nasty  little  reservations  ?" 

Mr.  Charteris  was  quite  sure.  His  face  was  still 
sad,  but  it  was  benevolent. 

“Don't  you  see,"  she  went  on,  “that  it's  just  these 
things  that  make  me  care  for  you  so  much,  and  feel 
sure  as  eggs  is  eggs  we  will  be  happy?  Ah,  Jack, 
we  will  be  so  utterly  happy  that  I  am  almost  afraid  to 
think  of  it!"  Patricia  wiped  away  the  last  tear,  and 
laughed,  and  added,  in  a  matter-of-fact  fashion: 
“There's  a  train  at  six-five  in  the  morning;  we  can 
leave  by  that,  before  anyone  is  up." 

Charteris  started.  “Your  husband  loves  you,"  he 
said,  in  gentle  reproof.  “And  quite  candidly,  you 
know,  Rudolph  is  worth  ten  of  me." 

“Bah,  I  tell  you,  that  was  a  comedy  for  my  bene¬ 
fit,"  she  protested,  and  began  to  laugh.  Patricia  was 
unutterably  happy  now,  because  she,  and  not  John 
Charteris,  had  been  in  the  wrong.  “Poor  Rudolph! 
* — he  has  such  a  smug  horror  of  the  divorce-court  that 
he  would  even  go  so  far  as  to  pretend  to  be  in  love 
with  his  own  wife  in  order  to  keep  out  of  it.  Really, 
Jack,  both  our  better-halves  are  horribly  common¬ 
place  and  they  will  be  much  better  off  without  us." 

“You  forget  that  Rudolph  has  my  word  of  honor," 
said  Mr.  Charteris,  in  indignation. 

268  *  . 


YOKED 


And  that  instant,  with  one  of  his  baffling  changes 
of  mood,  he  began  to  laugh.  “Really,  though,  Pa¬ 
tricia,  you  are  very  pretty.  You  are  April  embodied 
in  sweet  flesh;  your  soul  is  just  a  wisp  of  April  cloud, 
and  your  life  an  April  day,  half  sun  that  only  seems 
to  warm,  and  half  tempest  that  only  plays  at  ferocity; 
but  you  are  very  pretty.  That  is  why  I  am  think¬ 
ing,  light-headedly,  it  would  be  a  fine  and  past  doubt 
an  agreeable  exploit  to  give  up  everything  for  such 
a  woman,  and  am  complacently  comparing  myself  to 
Antony  at  Actium.  I  am  thinking  it  would  be  an  inter¬ 
esting  episode  in  one’s  Life  and  Letters.  You  see, 
my  dear,  I  honestly  believe  the  world  revolves  around 
John  Charteris — although  of  course  I  would  never 
admit  that  to  you  if  I  thought  for  a  moment  you 
would  take  me  seriously.” 

Then  presently,  sighing,  he  was  grave  again.  “But, 
no!  Rudolph  has  my  word  of  honor,”  Mr.  Charteris 
repeated,  and  with  unconcealed  regret. 

“Ah,  does  that  matter?”  she  cried.  “Does  any¬ 
thing  matter,  except  that  we  love  each  other?  I  tell 
you  I  have  given  the  best  part  of  my  life  to  that  man, 
but  I  mean  to  make  the  most  of  what  is  left.  He  has 
had  my  youth,  my  love — there  was  a  time,  you  know, 
when  I  actually  fancied  I  cared  for  him — and  he 
has  only  made  me  unhappy.  I  hate  him,  I  loathe  him, 
I  detest  him,  I  despise  him!  I  never  intend  to  speak 
to  him  again — oh,  yes,  I  shall  have  to  at  supper,  I 
suppose,  but  that  doesn’t  count.  And  I  tell  you  I  mean 
to  be  happy  in  the  only  way  that’s  possible.  Every- 

269 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


one  has  a  right  to  do  that.  A  woman  has  an  especial 
right  to  take  her  share  of  happiness  in  any  way  she 
can,  because  her  hour  of  it  is  so  short.  Sometimes 
— sometimes  the  woman  knows  how  short  it  is  and  it 
almost  frightens  her.  .  .  .  But  at  best,  a  woman  can 
be  really  happy  through  love  alone,  Jack  dear,  and 
it’s  only  when  we  are  young  and  good  to  look  at  that 
men  care  for  us;  after  that,  there  is  nothing  left  but 
to  take  to  either  religion  or  hand-embroidery,  so  what 
does  it  matter,  after  all?  Yes,  they  all  grow  tired 
after  a  while.  Jack,  I  am  only  a  vain  and  frivolous; 
person  of  superlative  charm,  but  I  love  you  very  much, 
my  dear,  and  I  solemnly  swear  to  commit  suicide  the 
moment  my  first  wrinkle  arrives.  You  shall  never 
grow  tired  of  me,  my  dear.” 

She  laughed  to  think  how  true  this  was. 

She  hurried  on:  “Jack>  kneel  down  at  once,  and 
swear  that  you  are  perfectly  sore  with  loving  me,  as 
that  ridiculous  person  says  in  Dickens,  and  whose 
name  I  never  could  remember.  Oh,  I  forgot — Dickens 
caricatures  nature,  doesn’t  he,  and  isn’t  read  by  really 
cultured  people?  You  will  have  to  educate  me  up  to 
your  level,  Jack,  and  I  warn  you  in  advance  you  will 
not  have  time  to  do  it.  Yes,  I  am  quite  aware  that 
I  am  talking  nonsense,  and  am  on  the  verge  of  hys¬ 
terics,  thank  you,  but  I  rather  like  it.  It  is  because 
I  am  going  to  have  you  all  to  myself  for  whatever 
future  there  is,  and  the  thought  makes  me  quite 
drunk.  Will  you  kindly  ring  for  the  patrol-wagon, 
Jack?  Jack,  are  you  quite  sure  you  love  me?  Are 
270 


YOKED 


you  perfectly  certain  you  never  loved  any  one  else 
half  so  much?  No,  don’t  answer  me,  for  I  intend  to 
do  all  the  talking  for  both  of  us  for  the  future!  I 
shall  tyrannize  over  you  frightfully,  and  you  will 
like  it.  All  I  ask  in  return  is  that  you  will  be  a  good 
boy — by  which  I  mean  a  naughty  boy — and  do  sol¬ 
emnly  swear,  promise  and  affirm  that  you  will  meet 
me  at  the  side-door  at  half-past  five  in  the  morning, 
with  a  portmanteau  and  the  intention  of  never  going 
back  to  your  wife.  You  swear  it?  Thank  you  so 
much!  Now,  I  think  I  would  like  to  cry  for  a  few 
minutes,  and,  after  that,  we  will  go  back  to  the 
house,  before  supper  is  over  and  my  eyes  are  per¬ 
fectly  crimson.” 

In  fact,  Mr.  Charteris  had  consented.  Patricia  was 
irresistible  as  she  pleaded  and  mocked  and  scolded 
and  coaxed  and  laughed  and  cried,  all  in  one  bewilder¬ 
ing  breath.  Her  plan  was  simple;  it  was  to  slip  out 
of  Matocton  at  dawn,  and  walk  to  the  near-by  station. 
There  they  would  take  the  train,  and  snap  their  fingers 
at  convention.  The  scheme  sounded  preposterous  in 
outline,  but  she  demonstrated  its  practicability  in  per¬ 
formance.  And  Mr.  Charteris  consented. 

Rudolph  Musgrave  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  cedar 
with  fierce  and  confused  emotions  whirling  in  his 
soul.  He  certainly  had  never  thought  of  this  con¬ 
tingency. 


I 


271 


PART  EIGHT 


HARVEST 


‘Time  was  I  coveted  the  woes  they  rued 
Whose  love  commemorates  them, — I  that  meant 
To  get  like  grace  of  love  then! — and  intent 
To  win  as  they  had  done  love’s  plenitude, 

Rapture  and  havoc,  vauntingly  I  sued 

That  love  like  theirs  might  make  a  toy  of  me, 

At  will  caressed,  at  will  (if  publicly) 

Demolished,  as  Love  found  or  found  not  good. 

“To-day  I  am  no  longer  overbrave. 

I  have  a  fever, — I  that  always  knew 

This  hour  was  certain ! — and  am  too  weak  to  rave, 

Too  tired  to  seek  (as  later  I  must  do) 

Tried  remedies — time,  manhood  and  the  grave — 
To  drug,  abate  and  banish  love  of  you.” 

Allen  Rossiter.  A  Fragment . 


I 


WHEN  Patricia  and  Charteris  had  left  the 
beach,  Colonel  Musgrave  parted  the  under¬ 
brush  and  stepped  down  upon  the  sand. 
He  must  have  air — air  and  an  open  place  wherein  to 
fight  this  out. 

Night  had  risen  about  him  in  bland  emptiness. 
There  were  no  stars  overhead,  but  a  patient,  wearied, 
ancient  moon  pushed  through  the  clouds.  The  trees 
and  the  river  conferred  with  one  another  doubtfully. 
He  paced  up  and  down  the  beach.  .  .  . 

Musgrave  laughed  in  the  darkness.  His  heart  was 
racing,  racing  in  him,  and  his  thoughts  were  blown 
foam.  He  raised  his  hat  and  bowed  fantastically  in 
the  darkness,  because  the  colonel  loved  his  gesture. 

“Signor  Lucifer,  I  present  my  compliments.  You 
have  discoursed  with  me  very  plausibly.  I  honor  your 
cunning,  signor,  but  if  you  are  indeed  a  gentleman, 
as  I  have  always  heard,  you  will  now  withdraw  and 
permit  me  to  regard  the  matter  from  a  standpoint 
other  than  my  own.  For  the  others  are  weak,  signor ; 
as  you  have  doubtless  discovered,  good  women  and 

275 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


bad  men  are  the  weakest  of  their  sex.  I  am  the 
strongest  among  them,  for  all  that  I  am  no  Hercules ; 
and  the  outcome  of  this  matter  must  rest  with  me.” 

So  he  sat  presently  upon  the  log,  where  Charteris 
had  sat  when  Musgrave  came  to  this  beach  at  sunset. 
Very  long  ago  that  seemed  now.  For  now  the  colo¬ 
nel  was  tired — physically  outworn,  it  seemed  to  him, 
as  if  after  prolonged  exertion — and  now  the  moon 
looked  down  upon  him,  passionless,  cold,  inexorable, 
and  seemed  to  await  the  colonel’s  decision. 

And  it  was  woefully  hard  to  come  to  any  decision. 
For,  as  you  know  by  this,  it  was  the  colonel’s  beset¬ 
ting  infirmity  to  shrink  from  making  changes;  in¬ 
stinctively  he  balked — under  shelter  of  whatever  gran¬ 
diloquent  excuse — against  commission  of  any  action 
which  would  alter  his  relations  with  accustomed  cir¬ 
cumstances  or  persons.  To  guide  events  was  never  his 
forte,  as  he  forlornly  knew;  and  here  he  was  con¬ 
demned  perforce  to  play  that  uncongenial  role,  with 
slender  chances  of  reward. 

Yet  always  Anne’s  face  floated  in  the  darkness. 
Always  Anne’s  voice  whispered  through  the  lisping 
of  the  beeches,  through  the  murmur  of  the 
water.  .  .  . 

He  sat  thus  for  a  long  while. 


276 


II 

M  US  GRAVE  was,  not  unnaturally,  late  for  sup¬ 
per.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  at  this 
meal  the  colonel  faltered  in  his  duties  as  a 
host,  for,  to  the  contrary,  he  narrated  several  anec¬ 
dotes  in  his  neatest  style.  It  was  with  him  a  point 
of  honor  always  to  be  in  company  the  social  triumph 
of  his  generation.  He  observed  with  idle  interest  that 
Charteris  and  Patricia  avoided  each  other  in  a  rather 
marked  manner.  Both  seemed  a  trifle  more  serious 
than  they  were  wont  to  be. 

After  supper,  Tom  Gelwix  brought  forth  a  mando¬ 
lin,  and  most  of  the  house-party  sang  songs,  sentimen¬ 
tal  and  otherwise,  upon  the  front  porch  of  Matocton. 
Anne  had  disappeared  somewhere.  Musgrave  subse¬ 
quently  discovered  her  in  one  of  the  drawing-rooms, 
puzzling  over  a  number  of  papers  which  her  maid 
had  evidently  just  brought  to  her. 

Mrs.  Charteris  looked  up  with  a  puckered  brow. 
“Rudolph,”  said  she,  “haven’t  you  an  account  at  the 
Occidental  Bank?” 

“Hardly  an  account,  dear  lady, — merely  a  deposit 

277 


large  enough  to  entitle  me  to  receive  monthly  notices 
that  I  have  overdrawn  it.” 

“Why,  then,  of  course,  you  have  a  cheque-book. 
Horrible  things,  aren’t  they? — such  a  nuisance  remem¬ 
bering  to  fill  out  those  little  stubs.  Of  course,  I  for¬ 
got  to  bring  mine  with  me — I  always  do;  and  equally, 
of  course,  a  vexatious  debt  turns  up  and  finds  me  with¬ 
out  an  Occidental  Bank  cheque  to  my  name.” 

Musgrave  was  amused.  “That,”  said  he,  “is  easily 

remedied.  I  will  get  you  one;  though  even  if - « 

Ah,  well,  what  is  the  good  of  trying  to  teach  you  ador¬ 
able  women  anything  about  business!  You  shall  have 
your  indispensable  blank  form  in  three  minutes.” 

He  returned  in  rather  less  than  that  time,  with  the 
cheque.  Anne  was  alone  now.  She  was  gowned  in 
some  dull,  soft,  yellow  stuff,  and  sat  by  a  small, 
marble-topped  table,  twiddling  a  fountain-pen. 

“You  mustn’t  sneer  at  my  business  methods,  Ru¬ 
dolph,”  she  said,  pouting  a  little  as  she  filled  out  the 
cheque.  “It  isn’t  polite,  sir,  in  the  first  place,  and, 
in  the  second,  I  am  really  very  methodical.  Of  course, 
I  am  always  losing  my  cheque-book,  and  drawing 
cheques  and  forgetting  to  enter  them,  and  I  usually 
put  down  the  same  deposit  two  or  three  times — all 
women  do  that ;  but,  otherwise,  I  am  really  very  care¬ 
ful.  I  manage  all  the  accounts;  I  can’t  expect  Jack  to 
do  that,  you  know.”  Mrs.  Charteris  signed  her  name 
with  a  flourish,  and  nodded  at  the  colonel  wisely. 
“Dear  infant,  but  he  is  quite  too  horribly  unpractical ! 
Do  you  know  this  bill  has  been  due — oh,  for  months — 
278 


HARVEST 


and  he  forgot  it  entirely  until  this  evening.  Fortu¬ 
nately,  he  can  settle  it  to-morrow;  those  disagreeable 
publishers  of  his  have  telegraphed  for  him  to  come  to 
New  York  at  once,  you  know.  Otherwise — dear, 
dear!  but  marrying  a  genius  is  absolutely  ruinous  to 
one’s  credit,  isn’t  it,  Rudolph?  The  tradespeople  will 
refuse  to  trust  us  soon.” 

Involuntarily,  Musgrave  had  seen  the  cheque.  It 
was  for  a  considerable  amount,  and  it  was  made  out 
to  John  Charteris. 

“Beyond  doubt,”  said  Musgrave,  in  his  soul,  “Jack 
is  colossal!  He  is  actually  drawing  on  his  wife  for 
the  necessary  expenses  for  running  away  with  another 
woman !” 

The  colonel  sat  down  abruptly  before  the  great,  open 
fireplace,  and  stared  hard  at  the  pine-boughs  which 
were  heaped  up  in  it. 

“A  penny,”  said  she,  at  length. 

He  glanced  up  with  a  smile.  “My  dear  madam, 
it  would  be  robbery!  For  a  penny,  you  may  read  of 
the  subject  of  my  thoughts  in  any  of  the  yellow  jour¬ 
nals,  only  far  more  vividly  set  forth,  and  obtain  a  va¬ 
riety  of  more  or  less  savory  additions,  to  boot.  I  was 
thinking  of  the  Lethbury  case,  and  wondering  how 
we  could  have  been  so  long  deceived  by  the  man.” 

“Ah,  poor  Mrs.  Lethbury!”  Anne  sighed,  “I  am 
very  sorry  for  her,  Rudolph ;  she  was  a  good  woman, 
and  was  always  interested  in  charitable  work.” 

“Do  you  know,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave,  with  de¬ 
liberation,  “it  is  she  I  cannot  understand.  To  dis- 

279 


cover  that  he  had  been  systematically  hoodwinking 
her  for  some  ten  years ;  that,  after  making  away  with 
as  much  of  her  fortune  as  he  was  able  to  lay  hands  on, 
he  has  betrayed  business  trust  after  business  trust  in 
order  to — to  maintain  another  establishment;  that  he 
has  never  cared  for  her,  and  has  made  her  his  dupe 
time  after  time,  in  order  to  obtain  money  for  his  gam¬ 
bling  debts  and  other  even  less  reputable  obligations 
— she  must  realize  all  these  things  now,  you  know, 
and  one  would  have  thought  no  woman’s  love  could 
possibly  survive  such  a  test.  Yet,  she  is  standing  by 
him  through  thick  and  thin.  Yes,  I  confess,  Amelia 
Lethbury  puzzles  me.  I  don’t  understand  her  mental 
attitude.” 

Musgrave  was  looking  at  Anne  very  intently  as  he 
ended. 

“Why,  but  of  course,”  said  Anne,  “she  realizes  that 
it  was  all  the  fault  of  that — that  other  woman;  and, 
besides,  the — the  entanglement  has  been  going  on  only 
a  little  over  eight  years — not  ten,  Rudolph.” 

She  was  entirely  in  earnest ;  Colonel  Musgrave  could 
see  it  plainly. 

“I  admit  I  hadn’t  looked  on  it  in  that  light,”  said 
he,  at  length,  and  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then, 
“Upon  my  soul,  Anne,”  he  cried,  “I  believe  you  think 
the  woman  is  only  doing  the  natural  thing,  only  doing 
the  thing  one  has  a  right  to  expect  of  her,  in  sticking 
to  that  blackguard  after  she  has  found  him  out!” 

Mrs.  Charteris  raised  her  eyebrows ;  she  was  really 
surprised.  “Naturally,  she  must  stand  by  her  husband 
280 


HARVEST 


when  he  is  in  trouble;  why,  if  his  own  wife  didn’t, 
who  would,  Rudolph?  It  is  just  now  that  he  needs 
her  most.  It  would  be  abominable  to  desert  him 
now.” 

Anne  paused  and  thought.  “Depend  upon  it,  she 
knows  a  better  side  of  his  nature  than  we  can  see; 
she  knows  him,  possibly,  to  have  been  misled,  or  to 
have  acted  thoughtlessly ;  because  otherwise,  she  would 
not  stand  by  him  so  firmly.”  Having  reached  this  sat¬ 
isfactory  conclusion,  Anne  began  to  laugh — at  Mus- 
grave’s  lack  of  penetration,  probably.  “So,  you  see, 
Rudolph,  in  either  case,  her  conduct  is  perfectly  natu¬ 
ral.” 

“And  this,”  he  cried,  “this  is  how  women  reason !” 

“Am  I  very  stupid?  Jack  says  I  am  a  bit  illogical 
at  times.  But,  Rudolph,  you  mustn’t  expect  a  woman 
to  judge  the  man  she  loves;  if  you  call  on  her  to  do 
that,  she  doesn’t  reason  about  it;  she  just  goes  on 
loving  him,  and  thinking  how  horrid  you  are.  Women 
love  men  as  they  do  children ;  they  punish  them  some¬ 
times,  but  only  in  deference  to  public  opinion.  A 
woman  will  always  find  an  excuse  for  the  man  she 
loves.  If  he  deserts  her,  she  is  miserable  until  she 
succeeds  in  demonstrating  to  herself  it  was  entirely 
her  own  fault ;  after  that,  she  is  properly  repentant,  but 
far  less  unhappy;  and,  anyhow,  she  goes  on  loving 
him  just  the  same.” 

The  colonel  pondered  over  this.  “Women  are  dif¬ 
ferent,”  he  said. 

“I  don’t  know.  I  think  that,  if  all  women  could  be 

281 


thrown  with  good  men,  they  would  all  be  good. 
Women  want  to  be  good;  but  there  comes  a  time  to 
each  one  of  them  when  she  wants  to  make  a  certain 
man  happy,  and  wants  that  more  than  anything  else 
in  the  world;  and  then,  of  course,  if  he  wants — very 
much — for  her  to  be  bad,  she  will  be  bad.  A  bad 
woman  is  always  to  be  explained  by  a  bad  man.” 

Anne  nodded,  very  wisely ;  then,  she  began  to  laugh, 
but  this  time  at  herself.  “I  am  talking  quite  like  a 
book,”  she  said.  “Really,  I  had  no  idea  I  was  so 
clever.  But  I  have  thought  of  this  before,  Rudolph, 
and  been  sorry  for  those  poor  women  who — who 
haven’t  found  the  right  sort  of  man  to  care  for.” 

“Yes.”  Musgrave’s  face  was  alert.  “You  have 
been  luckier  than  most,  Anne,”  he  said. 

“Lucky!”  she  cried,  and  that  queer  little  thrill  of 
happiness  woke  again  in  her  rich  voice.  “Ah,  you 
don’t  know  how  lucky  I  have  been,  Rudolph !  I  have 
never  cared  for  any  one  except — well,  yes,  you,  a 
great  while  ago — and  Jack.  And  you  are  both  good 
men.  Ah,  Rudolph,  it  was  very  dear  and  sweet  and 
foolish,  the  way  we  loved  each  other,  but  you  don’t 
mind — very,  very  much — do  you,  if  I  think  Jack  is 
the  best  man  in  the  world,  and  by  far  the  best  man  in 
the  world  for  me?  He  is  so  good  to  me;  he  is  so 
good  and  kind  and  considerate  to  me,  and,  even  after 
all  these  years  of  matrimony,  he  is  always  the  lover. 
A  woman  appreciates  that,  Rudolph;  she  wants  her 
husband  to  be  always  her  lover,  just  as  Jack  is,  and 
never  to  give  in  when  she  coaxes — because  she  only 
282 


HARVEST 


coaxes  when  she  knows  she  is  in  the  wrong — and 
never,  never,  to  let  her  see  him  shaving  himself.  If 
a  husband  observes  these  simple  rules,  Rudolph,  his 
wife  will  be  a  happy  woman;  and  Jack  does.  In  con¬ 
sequence,  every  day  I  live  I  grow  fonder  of  him,  and 
appreciate  him  more  and  more;  he  grows  upon  me 
just  as  a  taste  for  strong  drink  might.  Without  him 

— without  him - ”  Anne’s  voice  died  away;  then 

she  faced  Musgrave,  indignantly.  “Oh,  Rudolph!” 
she  cried,  “how  horrid  of  you,  how  mean  of  you, 
to  come  here  and  suggest  the  possibility  of  Jack’s 
dying  or  running  away  from  me,  or  doing  anything 
dreadful  like  that!” 

Colonel  Musgrave  was  smiling,  “I?”  said  he, 
equably.  “My  dear  madam!  if  you  will  recon¬ 
sider, - ” 

“No,”  she  conceded,  after  deliberation,  “it  wasn’t 
exactly  your  fault.  I  got  started  on  the  subject  of 
Jack,  and  imagined  all  sorts  of  horrible  and  impossible 
things.  But  there  is  a  sort  of  a  something  in  the  air 
to-night;  probably  a  storm  is  coming  down  the  river. 
So  I  feel  very  morbid  and  very  foolish,  Rudolph ;  but, 
then,  I  am  in  love,  you  see.  Isn’t  it  funny,  after 
all  these  years?”  Anne  asked  with  a  smile; — “and  so 
you  are  not  to  be  angry,  Rudolph.” 

“My  dear,”  he  said,  “I  assure  you,  the  emotion  you 
raise  in  me  is  very  far  from  resembling  that  of  anger.” 
Musgrave  rose  and  laughed.  “I  fear,  you  know,  we 
will  create  a  scandal  if  we  sit  here  any  longer.  Let’s 
see  what  the  others  are  doing.” 


283 


III 

THAT  night,  after  his  guests  had  retired,  Colonel 
Musgrave  smoked  a  cigarette  on  the  front 
porch  of  Matocton.  The  moon,  now  in  the 
zenith,  was  bright  and  chill.  After  a  while,  Musgrave 
raised  his  face  toward  it,  and  laughed. 

“Isn’t  it — isn’t  it  funny?”  he  demanded,  echoing 
Anne’s  query  ruefully. 

“Eh,  well!  perhaps  I  still  retained  some  lingering 
hope;  in  a  season  of  discomfort,  most  of  us  look 
vaguely  for  a  miracle.  And,  at  times,  it  comes,  but, 
more  often,  not;  life  isn’t  always  a  pantomime,  with 
a  fairy  god-mother  waiting  to  break  through  the 
darkness  in  a  burst  of  glory  and  reunite  the  severed 
lovers,  and  transform  their  enemies  into  pantaloons. 
In  this  case,  it  is  certain  that  the  fairy  will  not  come. 
I  am  condemned  to  be  my  own  god  in  the  machine.” 

Having  demonstrated  this  to  himself,  Musgrave 
went  into  the  house  and  drugged  his  mind  correcting 
proofsheets — for  the  Lichfield  Historical  Association’ s 
Quarterly  Magazine — and  brought  down  to  the  year 
1805  his  “List  of  Wills  Recorded  in  Brummell 
County.” 

284 


IV 


THE  night  was  well  advanced  when  Charteris 
stepped  noiselessly  into  the  room.  The  colonel 
was  then  sedately  writing  amid  a  host  of 
motionless  mute  watchers,  for  at  Matocton  most  of 
the  portraits  hang  in  the  East  Drawing-room. 

Thus,  above  the  great  marble  mantel, — carved 
with  thyrsi,  and  supported  by  proud  deep-bosomed 
caryatides, — you  will  find  burly  Sebastian  Musgrave, 
“the  Speaker,”  an  all-overbearing  man  even  on  can¬ 
vas.  “Paint  me  among  dukes  and  earls  with  my  hat 
on,  to  show  I  am  in  all  things  a  Republican,  and  the 
finest  diamond  in  the  Colony  shall  be  yours,”  he  had 
directed  the  painter,  and  this  was  done.  Then  there 
is  frail  Wilhelmina  Musgrave — that  famed  beauty 
whose  two-hundred-year-old  story  all  Lichfield  knows, 
and  no  genealogist  has  ever  cared  to  detail — eternally 
weaving  flowers  about  her  shepherd  hat.  There,  too, 
is  Evelyn  Ramsay,  before  whose  roguish  loveliness,  as 
you  may  remember,  the  colonel  had  snapped  his  fingers 
in  those  roseate  days  when  he  so  joyously  considered 
his  profound  unworthiness  to  be  Patricia’s  husband. 

285 


There  is  also  the  colonial  governor  of  Albemarle — a 
Van  Dyck  this — two  Knellers,  and  Lely’s  portrait  of 
Thomas  Musgrave,  “the  poet,”  with  serious  blue  eyes 
and  flaxen  hair.  The  painting  of  Captain  George  Mus¬ 
grave,  who  distinguished  himself  at  the  siege  of  Carta¬ 
gena,  is  admittedly  an  inferior  piece  of  work,  but  it 
has  vigor,  none  the  less ;  and  below  it  hangs  the  sword 
which  was  presented  to  him  by  the  Lord  High  Ad¬ 
miral. 

So  quietly  did  Charteris  come  that  the  colonel  was 
not  aware  of  his  entrance  until  the  novelist  had 
coughed  gently.  He  was  in  a  dressing-gown,  and 
looked  unusually  wizened. 

“I  saw  your  light,”  he  said.  “I  don’t  seem  to  be 
able  to  sleep,  somehow.  It  is  so  infernally  hot  and 
still.  I  suppose  there  is  going  to  be  a  thunderstorm. 
I  hate  thunderstorms.  They  frighten  me.”  The  lit¬ 
tle  man  was  speaking  like  a  peevish  child. 

“Oh,  well — !  it  will  at  least  clear  the  air,”  said 
Rudolph  Musgrave.  “Sit  down  and  have  a  smoke, 
won’t  you?” 

“No,  thanks.”  Charteris  had  gone  to  the  book¬ 
shelves  and  was  gently  pushing  and  pulling  at  the 
books  so  as  to  arrange  their  backs  in  a  mathematically 
straight  line.  “I  thought  I  would  borrow  something 
to  read — Why,  this  is  the  Tennyson  you  had  at  col¬ 
lege,  isn’t  it?  Yes,  I  remember  it  perfectly.” 

These  two  had  roomed  together  through  their  col¬ 
lege  days. 

“Yes;  it  is  the  old  Tennyson.  And  yonder  is  the 

286 


HARVEST 


identical  Swinburne  you  used  to  spout  from,  too. 
Lord,  Jack,  it  seems  a  century  since  I  used  to  listen 
by  the  hour  to  The  Triumph  of  Time  and  Dolores !” 

“Ah,  but  you  didn’t  really  care  for  them — not  even 
then.”  Charteris  reached  up,  his  back  still  turned,  and 
moved  a  candlestick  the  fraction  of  an  inch.  “There 
is  something  so  disgustingly  wholesome  about  you, 
Rudolph.  And  it  appears  to  be  ineradicable.  I  can’t 
imagine  how  I  ever  came  to  be  fond  of  you.” 

The  colonel  was  twirling  his  pen,  his  eyes  intent 
upon  it.  “And  yet — we  were  fond  of  each  other, 
weren’t  we,  Jack?” 

“Why,  I  positively  adored  you.  You  were  such  a 
strong  and  healthy  animal.  Upon  my  word,  I  don’t 
believe  I  ever  missed  a  single  football  game  you 
played  in.  In  fact,  I  almost  learned  to  understand 
the  game  on  your  account.  You  see — it  was  so  good 
to  watch  you  raging  about  with  touzled  hair,  like  the 
only  original  bull  of  Bashan,  and  the  others  tumbling 
like  ninepins.  It  used  to  make  me  quite  inordinately 
proud.” 

The  colonel  smoked.  “But,  Lord !  how  proud  I 
was  when  you  got  medals !” 

“Yes — I  remember.” 

“Even  if  I  did  bully  you  sometimes.  Remember 
how  I  used  to  twist  your  arm  to  make  you  write 
my  Latin  exercises,  Jack?” 

“I  liked  to  have  you  do  that,”  Charteris  said,  simply. 
“It  hurt  a  great  deal,  but  I  liked  it.” 

He  had  come  up  behind  the  colonel,  who  was  still 

287 


seated.  “Yes,  that  was  a  long  while  ago/’  said  Char- 
teris.  “It  is  rather  terrible — isn’t  it? — to  reflect  pre¬ 
cisely  how  long  ago  it  was.  Why,  I  shall  be  bald 
in  a  year  or  two  from  now.  But  you  have  kept 
almost  all  your  beautiful  hair,  Rudolph.” 

Charteris  touched  the  colonel’s  head,  stroking  his 
hair  ever  so  lightly  once  or  twice.  It  was  in  effect 
a  caress. 

The  colonel  was  aware  of  the  odor  of  myrrh  which 
always  accompanied  Charteris  and  felt  that  the  lit¬ 
tle  man  was  trembling. 

“Isn’t  there — anything  you  want  to  tell  me,  Jack?” 
the  colonel  said.  He  sat  quite  still. 

There  was  the  tiniest  pause.  The  caressing  finger¬ 
tips  lifted  from  Musgrave’s  head,  but  presently  gave 
it  one  more  brief  and  half-timid  touch. 

“Why,  only  au  revoir,  I  believe.  I  am  leaving  at 
a  rather  ungodly  hour  to-morrow  and  won’t  see  you, 
but  I  hope  to  return  within  the  week.” 

“I  hope  so,  Jack.” 

“And,  after  all,  it  is  too  late  to  be  reading.  I 
shall  go  back  to  bed  and  take  more  trional.  And 
then,  I  dare  say,  I  shall  deep.  So  good-by,  Rudolph.” 

“Good-night,  Jack.” 

“Oh,  yes - !  I  meant  good-night,  of  course.” 

The  colonel  sighed;  then  he  spoke  abruptly: 

“No,  just  a  moment,  Jack.  I  didn’t  ask  you  to 
come  here  to-night;  but  since  you  have  come,  by 
chance,  I  am  going  to  follow  the  promptings  of  that 
chance,  and  strike  a  blow  for  righteousness  with 
288 


HARVEST 


soiled  weapons.  Jack,  do  you  remember  suggesting 
that  my  father’s  correspondence  during  the  War  might 
be  of  value,  and  that  his  desk  ought  to  be  over¬ 
hauled?” 

“Why,  yes,  of  course.  Mrs.  Musgrave  was  tell¬ 
ing  me  she  began  the  task,”  said  Charteris,  and  smiled 
a  little. 

“Unluckily;  yes — but — well!  in  any  event,  it  sug¬ 
gested  to  me  that  old  letters  are  dangerous.  I  really 
had  no  idea  what  that  desk  contained.  My  father 
had  preserved  great  stacks  of  letters.  I  have  been 
going  through  them.  They  were  most  of  them  from 
women — letters  which  should  never  have  been  writ¬ 
ten  in  the  first  place,  and  which  he  certainly  had 
no  right  to  keep.” 

“What!  and  is  ‘Wild  Will’s’  love-correspondence 
still  extant?  I  fancy  it  made  interesting  reading,  Ru¬ 
dolph.” 

“There  were  some  letters  which  in  a  measure  con¬ 
cern  you,  Jack.”  The  colonel  handed  him  a  small 
packet  of  letters.  “If  you  will  read  the  top  one  it 
will  explain.  I  will  just  go  on  with  my  writing.” 

He  wrote  steadily  for  a  moment  or  two.  .  .  .  Then 
Charteris  laughed  musically. 

“I  have  always  known  there  was  a  love-affair  be¬ 
tween  my  mother  and  ‘Wild  Will.’  But  I  never  sus¬ 
pected  until  to-night  that  I  had  the  honor  to  be  your 
half-brother,  Rudolph — one  of  ‘Wild  Will’s’  in¬ 
numerable  bastards.”  Charteris  was  pallid,  and 
though  he  seemed  perfectly  composed,  his  eyes  glit- 

289 


tered  as  with  gusty  brilliancies.  “I  understand  now 
why  my  reputed  father  always  made  such  a  difference 
between  my  sister  and  myself.  I  never  liked  old 
Alvin  Charteris,  you  know.  It  is  a  distinct  relief 
to  be  informed  I  have  no  share  in  his  blood,  although 
of  course  the  knowledge  comes  a  trifle  suddenly.” 

“Perhaps  I  should  have  kept  that  knowledge  to 
myself.  I  know  it  would  have  been  kinder.  I  had 
meant  to  be  kind.  I  loathe  myself  for  dabbling  in 
this  mess.  But,  in  view  of  all  things,  it  seemed  neces¬ 
sary  to  let  you  know  I  am  your  own  brother  in  the 
flesh,  and  that  Patricia  is  your  brother’s  wife.” 

“I  see,”  said  Charteris.  “According  to  your 
standards  that  would  make  a  great  difference.  I  don’t 
know,  speaking  frankly,  that  it  makes  much  difference 
with  me.”  He  turned  again  to  the  bookshelves,  so 
that  Musgrave  could  no  longer  see  his  face.  Char¬ 
teris  ran  his  fingers  caressingly  over  the  backs  of  a 
row  of  volumes.  “I  loved  my  mother,  Rudolph.  I 
never  loved  anyone  else.  That  makes  a  difference.” 
Then  he  said,  “We  Musgraves — how  patly  I  catalogue 
myself  already! — we  Musgraves  have  a  deal  to  answer 
for,  Rudolph.” 

“And  doesn’t  that  make  it  all  the  more  our  duty 
to  live  clean  and  honest  lives?  to  make  the  debt  no 
greater  than  it  is  ?”  Both  men  were  oddly  quiet. 

“Eh,  I  am  not  so  sure.”  John  Charteris  waved 
airily  toward  Sebastian  Musgrave’s  counterfeit,  then 
toward  the  other  portraits.  “It  was  they  who  com¬ 
pounded  our  inheritances,  Rudolph — all  that  we  were 
290 


HARVEST 


to  have  in  this  world  of  wit  and  strength  and  desire 
and  endurance.  We  know  their  histories.  They  were 
proud,  brave  and  thriftless,  a  greedy  and  lecherous 
race,  who  squeezed  life  dry  as  one  does  an  orange, 
and  left  us  the  dregs.  I  think  that  it  is  droll,  but 
I  am  not  sure  it  places  us  under  any  obligation.  In 
fact,  I  rather  think  God  owes  us  an  apology,  Ru¬ 
dolph” 

He  spoke  with  quaint  wistfulness.  The  colonel  sat 
regarding  him  in  silence,  with  shocked,  disapproving 
eyes.  Then  Charteris  cocked  his  head  to  one  side 
and  grinned  like  a  hobgoblin. 

“What  wouldn’t  you  give,”  he  demanded,  “to  know 
what  I  am  really  thinking  of  at  this  very  moment 
while  I  talk  so  calmly?  Well,  you  will  never  know. 
And  for  the  rest,  you  are  at  liberty  to  use  your  all- 
important  documents  as  you  may  elect.  I  am  John 
Charteris;  whatever  man  begot  my  body,  he  is  rotten 
bones  to-day,  and  it  is  as  such  I  value  him.  I  was 
never  anybody’s  son — or  friend  or  brother  or  lover, 
— but  just  a  pen  that  someone  far  bigger  and  far 
nobler  than  John  Charteris  writes  with  occasionally. 
Whereas  you — but,  oh,  you  are  funny,  Rudolph!” 
And  then,  “Good-night,  dear  brother,”  Charteris 

added,  sweetly,  as  he  left  the  room. 

*  *  * 

And  Rudolph  Musgrave  could  not  quite  believe  in 
the  actuality  of  what  had  just  happened.  In  com¬ 
mon  with  most  of  us,  he  got  his  general  notions 
concerning  the  laws  of  life  from  reading  fiction; 

291 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


and  here  was  the  material  for  a  Renaissance  tragedy 
wasted  so  far  as  any  denouement  went.  Destiny, 
once  more,  was  hardly  rising  to  the  possibilities  of 
the  situation.  The  weapon  chance  had  forged  had 
failed  Rudolph  Musgrave  utterly;  and,  indeed,  he 
wondered  now  how  he  could  ever  have  esteemed  it 
formidable.  Jack  was  his  half-brother.  In  noveldom 
or  in  a  melodrama  this  discovery  would  have  trans¬ 
formed  their  mutual  dealings;  but  as  a  workaday 
world’s  fact,  Musgrave  would  not  honestly  say  that 
it  had  in  any  way  affected  his  feelings  toward  Jack, 
and  it  appeared  to  have  left  Charteris  equally  un¬ 
altered. 

“I  am  not  sure,  though.  We  can  only  guess  where 
Jack  is  concerned.  He  goes  his  own  way  always, 
tricky  and  furtive  and  lonelier  than  any  other  human 
being  I  have  ever  known.  It  is  loneliness  that  looks 
out  of  his  eyes,  really,  even  when  he  is  mocking  and 
sneering,”  the  colonel  meditated. 

Then  he  sighed  and  went  back  to  the  tabulation 
of  his  lists  of  wills. 


292 


V 


THE  day  was  growing  strong  in  the  maple- 
grove  behind  Matocton.  As  yet,  the  climb¬ 
ing  sun  fired  only  the  topmost  branches,  and 
flooded  them  with  a  tempered  radiance  through  which 
birds  plunged  and  shrilled  vague  rumors  to  one  an¬ 
other.  Beneath,  a  green  twilight  lingered — twilight 
which  held  a  gem-like  glow,  chill  and  lucent  and  steady 
as  that  of  an  emerald.  Vagrant  little  puffs  of  wind 
bustled  among  the  leaves,  with  a  thin  pretense  of 
purpose,  and  then  lapsed,  and  merged  in  the  large, 
ambiguous  whispering  which  went  stealthily  about 
the  grove. 

Rudolph  Musgrave  sat  on  a  stone  beside  the  road 
that  winds  through  the  woods  toward  the  railway 
station,  and  smoked,  nervously.  He  was  disheartened 
of  the  business  of  living,  and,  absurdly  enough,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  he  was  hungry. 

“It  has  to  be  done  quietly  and  without  the  re¬ 
motest  chance  of  Anne’s  ever  hearing  of  it,  and  with¬ 
out  the  remotest  chance  of  its  ever  having  to  be 
done  again.  I  have  about  fifteen  minutes  in  which 

293 


to  convince  Patricia  both  of  her  own  folly  and  of 
the  fact  that  Jack  is  an  unmitigated  cad,  and  to 
get  him  off  the  place  quietly,  so  that  Anne  will  sus¬ 
pect  nothing.  And  I  never  knew  any  reasonable  ar¬ 
gument  to  appeal  to  Patricia,  and  Jack  will  be  a  cor¬ 
nered  rat!  Yes,  it  is  a  large  contract,  and  I  would 
give  a  great  deal — a  very  great  deal — to  know  how  I 
am  going  to  fulfil  it.” 

At  this  moment  his  wife  and  Mr.  Charteris,  carry¬ 
ing  two  portmanteaux,  came  around  a  bend  in  the 
road  not  twenty  feet  from  Musgrave.  They  were 
both  rather  cross.  In  the  clean  and  more  prosaic 
light  of  morning  an  elopement  seemed  almost  silly; 
moreover,  Patricia  had  had  no  breakfast,  and  Char¬ 
teris  had  been  much  annoyed  by  his  wife,  who  had 
breakfasted  with  him,  and  had  insisted  on  driving 
to  the  station  with  him.  It  was  a  trivial-seeming 
fact,  but,  perhaps,  not  unworthy  of  notice,  that  Pa¬ 
tricia  was  carrying  her  own  portmanteau,  as  well  as 
an  umbrella. 

The  three  faced  one  another  in  the  cool  twilight. 
The  woods  stirred  lazily  about  them.  The  birds  were 
singing  on  a  wager  now. 

“Ah,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave,  “so  you  have  come 
at  last.  I  have  been  expecting  you  for  some  time.” 

Patricia  dropped  her  portmanteau,  sullenly.  Mr. 
Charteris  placed  his  with  care  to  the  side  of  the  road, 
and  said,  “Oh!”  It  was  perhaps  the  only  observa¬ 
tion  that  occurred  to  him. 

“Patricia,”  Musgrave  began,  very  kindly  and  very 
294 


HARVEST 


gravely,  “you  are  about  to  do  a  foolish  thing.  At 
the  bottom  of  your  heart,  even  now,  you  know  you 
are  about  to  do  a  foolish  thing — a  thing  you  will 
regret  bitterly  and  unavailingly  for  the  rest  of  time. 
You  are  turning  your  back  on  the  world — our  world 
— on  the  one  possible  world  you  could  ever  be  happy 
in.  You  can’t  be  happy  in  the  half-world,  Patricia; 
you  aren’t  that  sort.  But  you  can  never  come  back 
to  us  then,  Patricia;  it  doesn’t  matter  what  the  mo¬ 
tive  was,  what  the  temptation  was,  or  how  great  the 
repentance  is — you  cannot  ever  return.  That  is  the 
law,  Patricia;  perhaps,  it  isn’t  always  a  just  law.  We 
didn’t  make  it,  you  and  I,  but  it  is  the  law,  and  we 
must  obey  it.  Our  world  merely  says  that,  leaving  it 
once,  you  cannot  ever  return :  such  is  the  only  punish¬ 
ment  it  awards  you,  for  it  knows,  this  wise  old  world 
of  ours,  that  such  is  the  bitterest  punishment  which 
could  ever  be  devised  for  you.  Our  world  has  made 
you  what  you  are ;  in  every  thought  and  ideal  and  emo¬ 
tion  you  possess,  you  are  a  product  of  our  world.  You 
couldn’t  live  in  the  half-world,  Patricia;  you  are  a 
product  of  our  world  that  can  never  take  root  in  that 
alien  soil.  Come  back  to  us  before  it  is  too  late,  Pa¬ 
tricia!” 

Musgrave  shook  himself  all  over,  rather  like  a 
Newfoundland  dog  coming  out  of  the  water,  and 
the  grave  note  died  from  his  voice.  He  smiled,  and 
rubbed  his  hands  together. 

“And  now,”  said  he,  “I  will  stop  talking  like  a 
problem  play,  and  we  will  say  no  more  about  it.  Give 

295 


me  your  portmanteau,  my  dear,  and  upon  my  word 
of  honor,  you  will  never  hear  a  word  further  from 
me  in  the  matter.  Jack,  here,  can  take  the  train,  just 
as  he  intended.  And — 'and  you  and  I  will  go  back 
to  the  house,  and  have  a  good,  hot  breakfast  to¬ 
gether.  Eh,  Patricia?” 

She  was  thinking,  unreasonably  enough,  how  big 
and  strong  and  clean  her  husband  looked  in  the  grow¬ 
ing  light.  It  was  a  pity  Jack  was  so  small.  How¬ 
ever,  she  faced  Musgrave  coldly,  and  thought  how 
ludicrously  wide  of  the  mark  were  all  these  threats 
of  ostracism.  She  shudderingly  wished  he  would 
not  talk  of  soil  and  taking  root  and  hideous  things 
like  that,  but  otherwise  the  colonel  left  her  unmoved. 
He  was  certainly  good-looking,  though. 

Charteris  was  lighting  a  cigarette,  with  a  queer, 
contented  look.  He  knew  the  value  of  Patricia’s 
stubbornness  now;  still,  he  appeared  to  be  using  an 
unnecessary  number  of  matches. 

“I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  perceived 
the  lack  of  dignity,  as  well  as  the  utter  uselessness, 
in  making  such  a  scene,”  Patricia  said.  “We  aren’t 
suited  for  each  other,  Rudolph;  and  it  is  better — 
far  better  for  both  of  us — to  have  done  with  the  farce 
of  pretending  to  be.  I  am  sorry  that  you  still  care 
for  me.  I  didn’t  know  that.  But,  for  the  future, 
I  intend  to  live  my  own  life.” 

Patricia’s  voice  faltered,  and  she  stretched  out  her 
hands  a  little  toward  her  husband  in  an  odd  gust  of 
friendliness.  He  looked  so  kind ;  and  he  was  not  smil- 
296 


HARVEST 


ing  in  that  way  she  never  liked.  “Surely  that  isn’t 
so  unpardonable  a  crime,  Rudolph?”  she  asked,  al¬ 
most  humbly. 

“No,  my  dear,”  he  answered,  “it  is  not  unpardon¬ 
able — it  is  impossible.  You  can’t  lead  your  own  life, 
Patricia;  none  of  us  can.  Each  life  is  bound  up  with 
many  others,  and  every  rash  act  of  yours,  every  hasty 
word  of  yours,  must  affect  to  some  extent  the  lives 
of  those  who  are  nearest  and  most  dear  to  you.  But, 
oh,  it  is  not  argument  that  I  would  be  at!  Patricia, 
there  was  a  woman  once — She  was  young,  and 
wealthy,  and — ah,  well,  I  won’t  deceive  you  by  exag¬ 
gerating  her  personal  attractions!  I  will  serve  up  to 
you  no  praises  of  her  sauced  with  lies.  But  fate 
and  nature  had  combined  to  give  her  everything  a 
woman  can  desire,  and  all  this  that  woman  freely  gave 
to  me — to  me  who  hadn’t  youth  or  wealth  or  fame 
or  anything!  And  I  can’t  stand  by,  for  that  dear 
dead  girl’s  sake,  and  watch  your  life  go  wrong,  Pa¬ 
tricia  !” 

“You  are  just  like  the  rest  of  them,  Olaf” — and 
when  had  she  used  that  half-forgotten  nickname  last, 
he  wondered.  “You  imagine  you  are  in  love  with  a 
girl  because  you  happen  to  like  the  color  of  her  eyes, 
or  because  there  is  a  curve  about  her  lips  that  ap¬ 
peals  to  you.  That  isn’t  love,  Olaf,  as  we  women  un¬ 
derstand  it.” 

And  wildly  hideous  and  sad,  it  seemed  to  Colonel 
Musgrave — this  dreary  parody  of  their  old  love-talk. 
Only,  he  dimly  knew  that  she  had  forgotten  John 

297 


Charteris  existed,  and  that  to  her  this  moment  seemed 
no  less  sardonic. 

Charteris  inhaled,  lazily;  yet,  he  did  not  like  the 
trembling  about  Patricia’s  mouth.  Her  hands,  too, 
opened  and  shut  tight  before  she  spoke. 

“It  is  too  late  now,”  she  said,  dully.  “I  gave  you 
all  there  was  to  give.  You  gave  me  just  what  Grandma 
Pendomer  and  all  the  others  had  left  you  able  to  give. 
That  remnant  isn’t  love,  Olaf,  as  we  women  under¬ 
stand  it.  And,  anyhow,  it  is  too  late  now.” 

Yet  Patricia  was  remembering  a  time  when  Ru¬ 
dolph’s  voice  held  always  that  grave,  tender  note  in 
speaking  to  her ;  it  seemed  a  great  while  ago.  And  he 
was  big  and  manly,  just  like  his  voice,  Rudolph  was; 
and  he  looked  very  kind.  Desperately,  Patricia  began 
to  count  over  the  times  her  husband  had  offended  her. 
Hadn’t  he  talked  to  her  in  the  most  unwarrantable 
manner  only  yesterday  afternoon? 

“Too  late! — oh,  not  a  bit  of  it!”  Musgrave  cried. 
His  voice  sank  persuasively.  “Why,  Patricia,  you 
are  only  thinking  the  matter  over  for  the  first  time. 
You  have  only  begun  to  think  of  it.  Why,  there  is 
the  boy — our  boy,  Patricia !  Surely,  you  hadn’t 
thought  of  Roger?” 

He  had  found  the  right  chord  at  last.  It  quivered 
and  thrilled  under  his  touch;  and  the  sense  of  mas¬ 
tery  leaped  in  his  blood.  Of  a  sudden,  he  knew  him¬ 
self  dominant.  Her  face  was  red,  then  white,  and 
her  eyes  wavered  before  the  blaze  of  his,  that  held 
her,  compellingly. 

298 


HARVEST 


“Now,  honestly,  just  between  you  and  me,”  the 
colonel  said,  confidentially,  “was  there  ever  a  better 
and  braver  and  quainter  and  handsomer  boy  in  the 
world  ?  Why,  Patricia,  surely,  you  wouldn’t  willingly 
— of  your  own  accord — go  away  from  him,  and  never 
see  him  again?  Oh,  you  haven’t  thought,  I  tell  you! 
Think,  Patricia!  Don’t  you  remember  that  first  day, 
when  I  came  into  your  room  at  the  hospital  and  he 
— ah,  how  wrinkled  and  red  and  old-looking  he  was 
then,  wasn’t  he,  little  wife?  Don’t  you  remember 
how  he  was  lying  on  your  breast,  and  how  I  took 
you  both  in  my  arms,  and  held  you  close  for  a  mo¬ 
ment,  and  how  for  a  long,  long  while  there  wasn’t 
anything  left  of  the  whole  wide  world  except  just 
us  three  and  God  smiling  down  upon  us?  Don’t  you 
remember,  Patricia?  Don’t  you  remember  his  first 
tooth — why,  we  were  as  proud  of  him,  you  and  I, 
as  if  there  had  never  been  a  tooth  before  in  all  the 
history  of  the  world!  Don’t  you  remember  the  first 
day  he  walked?  Why,  he  staggered  a  great  distance 
— oh,  nearly  two  yards ! — and  caught  hold  of  my  hand, 
and  laughed  and  turned  back — to  you.  You  didn’t 
run  away  from  him  then,  Patricia.  Are  you  going 
to  do  it  now?” 

She  struggled  under  his  look.  She  had  an  ab¬ 
surd  desire  to  cry,  just  that  he  might  console  her. 
She  knew  he  would.  Why  was  it  so  hard  to  remem¬ 
ber  that  she  hated  Rudolph!  Of  course,  she  hated 
him;  she  loved  that  other  man  yonder.  His  name  was 
Jack.  She  turned  toward  Charteris,  and  the  reassur- 

299 


ing  smile  with  which  he  greeted  her,  impressed  Pa¬ 
tricia  as  being  singularly  nasty.  She  hated  both  of 
them;  she  wanted — in  that  brief  time  which  remained 
for  having  anything — only  her  boy,  her  soft,  warm 
little  Roger  who  had  eyes  like  Rudolph’s. 

“I — I — it’s  too  late,  Rudolph,”  she  stammered,  par¬ 
rot-like.  “If  you  had  only  taken  better  care  of  me, 
Rudolph!  If — No,  it’s  too  late,  I  tell  you!  You  will 
be  kind  to  Roger.  I  am  only  weak  and  frivolous  and 
heartlesss.  I  am  not  fit  to  be  his  mother.  I’m  not 
fit,  Rudolph!  Rudolph,  I  tell  you  I’m  not  fit!  Ah, 
let  me  go,  my  dear! — in  mercy,  let  me  go!  For  I 
haven’t  loved  the  boy  as  I  ought  to,  and  I  am  afraid 
to  look  you  in  the  face,  and  you  won’t  let  me  take 
my  eyes  away — you  won’t  let  me!  Ah,  Rudolph,  let 
me  go!” 

“Not  fit?”  His  voice  thrilled  with  strength,  and 
pulsed  with  tender  cadences.  “Ah,  Patricia,  I  am  not 
fit  to  be  his  father!  But,  between  us — between  us, 
mightn’t  we  do  much  for  him  ?  Come  back  to  us,  Pa¬ 
tricia — to  me  and  the  boy!  We  need  you,  my  dear. 
Ah,  I  am  only  a  stolid,  unattractive  fogy,  I  know; 
but  you  loved  me  once,  and — I  am  the  father  of  your 
child.  My  standards  are  out-of-date,  perhaps,  and  in 
any  event  they  are  not  your  standards,  and  that  dif¬ 
ference  has  broken  many  ties  between  us;  but  I  am 
the  father  of  your  child.  You  must — you  must  come 
back  to  me  and  the  boy !”  Musgrave  caught  her  face 
between  his  hands,  and  lifted  it  toward  his.  “Pa¬ 
tricia,  don’t  make  any  mistake!  There  is  nothing 
300 


HARVEST 


you  care  for  so  much  as  that  boy.  You  can’t  give 
him  up!  If  you  had  to  walk  over  red-hot  plough¬ 
shares  to  come  to  him,  you  would  do  it;  if  you  could 
win  him  a  moment’s  happiness  by  a  lifetime  of  poverty 
and  misery  and  degradation,  you  would  do  it.  And 
so  would  I,  little  wife.  That  is  the  tie  which  still 
unites  us;  that  is  the  tie  which  is  too  strong  ever 
to  break.  Come  back  to  us,  Patricia — to  me  and  the 
boy.” 

"I — Jack,  Jack,  take  me  away!”  she  wailed  help¬ 
lessly. 

Charteris  came  forward  with  a  smile.  He  was 
quite  sure  of  Patricia  now. 

“Colonel  Musgrave,”  he  said,  with  a  faint  drawl, 
“if  you  have  entirely  finished  your  edifying  and,  I 
assure  you,  highly  entertaining  monologue,  I  will  ask 
you  to  excuse  us.  I — oh,  man,  man !”  Charteris  cried, 
not  unkindly,  “don’t  you  see  it  is  the  only  possible 
outcome  ?” 

Musgrave  faced  him.  The  glow  of  hard-earned  vic¬ 
tory  was  pulsing  in  the  colonel’s  blood,  but  his  eyes 
were  chill  stars.  “Now,  Jack,”  he  said,  equably,  “I  am 
going  to  talk  to  you.  In  fact,  I  am  going  to  discharge 
an  agreeable  duty  toward  you.” 

Musgrave  drew  close  to  him.  Charteris  shrugged 
his  shoulders;  his  smile,  however,  was  not  entirely 
satisfactory.  It  did  not  suggest  enjoyment. 

“I  don’t  blame  you  for  being  what  you  are,”  Mus¬ 
grave  went  on,  curtly.  “You  were  born  so,  doubt¬ 
less.  I  don’t  blame  a  snake  for  being  what  it  is.  But, 

3QI 


when  I  see  a  snake,  I  claim  the  right  to  set  my  foot 
on  its  head ;  when  I  see  a  man  like  you — well,  this  is 
the  right  I  claim.” 

Thereupon  Rudolph  Musgrave  struck  his  half- 
brother  in  the  face  with  his  open  hand.  The  colonel 
was  a  strong  man,  physically,  and,  on  this  occasion, 
he  made  no  effort  to  curb  his  strength. 

“Now,”  Musgrave  concluded,  “you  are  going  away 
from  this  place  very  quickly,  and  you  are  going  alone. 
You  will  do  this  because  I  tell  you  to  do  so,  and 
because  you  are  afraid  of  me.  Understand,  also — 
if  you  will  be  so  good — that  the  only  reason  I  don’t 
give  you  a  thorough  thrashing  is  that  I  don’t  think 
you  are  worth  the  trouble.  I  only  want  Patricia  to 
perceive  exactly  what  sort  of  man  you  are.” 

The  blow  staggered  Charteris.  He  seemed  to  grow 
smaller*  His  clothes  seemed  to  hang  more  loosely 
about  him.  His  face  was  paper-white,  and  the  red 
mark  showed  plainly  upon  it. 

“There  would  be  no  earthly  sense  in  my  hitting 
you  back,”  he  said  equably.  “It  would  only  necessi¬ 
tate  my  getting  the  thrashing  which,  I  can  assure  you, 
we  are  equally  anxious  to  avoid.  Of  course  you  are 
able  to  knock  me  down  and  so  on,  because  you  are 
nearly  twice  as  big  as  I  am.  I  fail  to  see  that  proves 
anything  in  particular.  Come,  Patricia!”  And  he 
turned  to  her,  and  reached  out  his  hand. 

She  shrank  from  him.  She  drew  away  from  him, 
without  any  vehemence,  as  if  he  had  been  some  slimy, 
harmless  reptile.  A  woman  does  not  like  to  see  fear 

3°2 


HARVEST 


in  a  man’s  eyes ;  and  there  was  fear  in  Mr.  Charteris’s 
eyes,  for  all  that  he  smiled.  Patricia’s  heart  sickened. 
She  loathed  him,  and  she  was  a  little  sorry  for  him. 

“Oh,  you  cur,  you  cur !”  she  gasped,  in  a  wondering 
whisper.  Patricia  went  to  her  husband,  and  held  out 
her  hands.  She  was  afraid  of  him.  She  was  proud 
of  him,  the  strong  animal.  “Take  me  away,  Ru¬ 
dolph,”  she  said,  simply ;  “take  me  away  from  that — - 
that  coward.  Take  me  away,  my  dear.  You  may  beat 
me,  too,  if  you  like,  Rudolph.  I  dare  say  I  have  de¬ 
served  it.  But  I  want  you  to  deal  brutally  with  me, 
to  carry  me  away  by  force,  just  as  you  threatened  to 
do  the  day  we  were  married — at  the  Library,  you 
remember,  when  the  man  was  crying  ‘Fresh  oranges!’ 
and  you  smelt  so  deliciously  of  soap  and  leather  and 
cigarette  smoke.” 

Musgrave  took  both  her  hands  in  his.  He  smiled 
at  Charteris. 

The  novelist  returned  the  smile,  intensifying  its 
sweetness.  “I  fancy,  Rudolph,”  he  said,  “that,  after 
all,  I  shall  have  to  take  that  train  alone.” 

Mr.  Charteris  continued,  with  a  grimace:  “You 
have  no  notion,  though,  how  annoying  it  is  not  to 
possess  an  iota  of  what  is  vulgarly  considered  manli¬ 
ness.  But  what  am  I  to  do?  I  was  not  born  with 
the  knack  of  enduring  physical  pain.  Oh,  yes,  I  am  a 
coward,  if  you  like  to  put  it  nakedly;  but  I  was  born 
so,  willy-nilly.  Personally,  if  I  had  been  consulted 
in  the  matter,  I  would  have  preferred  the  usual  por¬ 
tion  of  valor.  However!  the  sanctity  of  the  hearth 

303 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


has  been  most  edifyingly  preserved — and,  after  all,  the 
woman  is  not  worth  squabbling  about.” 

There  was  exceedingly  little  of  the  mountebank  in 
him  now;  he  kicked  Patricia’s  portmanteau,  frankly 
and  viciously,  as  he  stepped  over  it  to  lift  his  own. 
Holding  this  in  one  hand,  John  Charteris  spoke,  hon¬ 
estly  : 

“Rudolph,  I  had  a  trifle  underrated  your  resources. 
For  you  are  a  brave  man — we  physical  cowards,  you 
know,  admire  that  above  all  things — and  a  strong  man 
and  a  clever  man,  in  that  you  have  adroitly  played 
upon  the  purely  brutal  traits  of  women.  Any  she- 
animal  clings  to  its  young  and  looks  for  protection 
in  its  mate.  Upon  a  higher  ground  I  would  have 
beaten  you,  but  as  an  animal  you  are  my  superior. 
Still,  a  thing  done  has  an  end.  You  have  won  back 
your  wife  in  open  fight.  I  fancy,  by  the  way,  that  you 
have  rather  laid  up  future  trouble  for  yourself  in 
doing  so,  but  I  honor  the  skill  you  have  shown. 
Colonel  Musgrave,  it  is  to  you  that,  as  the  vulgar 
phrase  it,  I  take  off  my  hat.” 

Thereupon,  Mr.  Charteris  uncovered  his  head  with 
perfect  gravity,  and  turned  on  his  heel,  and  went 
down  the  road,  whistling  melodiously. 

Musgrave  stared  after  him,  for  a  while.  The  lust 
of  victory  died;  the  tumult  and  passion  and  fervor 
were  gone  from  Musgrave’s  soul.  He  could  very 
easily  imagine  the  things  Jack  Charteris  would  say 
to  Anne  concerning  him;  and  the  colonel  knew  that 
she  would  believe  them  all.  He  had  won  the  game; 
304 


HARVEST 


he  had  played  it,  heartily  and  skilfully  and  success¬ 
fully;  and  his  reward  was  that  the  old  bickerings 
with  Patricia  should  continue,  and  that  Anne  should 
be  taught  to  loathe  him.  He  foresaw  it  all  very  plainly 
as  he  stood,  hand  in  hand  with  his  wife. 

But  Anne  would  be  happy.  It  was  for  that  he 
had  played. 


30S 


VI 


THEY  came  back  to  Matocton  almost  'silently. 

The  spell  of  the  dawn  was  broken;  it  was 
honest,  garish  day  now,  and  they  were  both 

hungry. 

Patricia’s  spirits  were  rising,  as  a  butterfly’s  might 
after  a  thunderstorm.  Since  she  had  only  a  few 
months  to  live,  she  would  at  least  not  waste  them 
in  squabbling.  She  would  be  conscientiously  agree¬ 
able  to  everybody. 

“Ah,  Rudolph,  Rudolph!”  she  cooed,  “if  I  had  only 
known  all  along  that  you  loved  me!” 

“My  dear,”  he  protested,  fondly,  “it  seemed  such 
a  matter  of  course.”  He  was  a  little  tired,  perhaps; 
the  portmanteau  seemed  very  heavy. 

“A  woman  likes  to  be  told — a  woman  likes  to  be 
told  every  day.  Otherwise,  she  forgets,”  Patricia 
murmured.  Then  her  face  grew  tenderly  reproach¬ 
ful.  “Ah,  Rudolph,  Rudolph,  see  what  your  careless¬ 
ness  and  neglect  has  nearly  led  to!  It  nearly  led  to 
my  running  away  with  a  man  like — like  that!  It 
would  have  been  all  your  fault,  Rudolph,  if  I  had. 
You  know  it  would  have  been,  Rudolph.” 

3  06 


HARVEST 


And  Patricia  sighed  once  more,  and  then  laughed 
and  became  magnanimous. 

4 ‘Yes — yes,  after  all,  you  are  the  boy’s  father.” 
She  smiled  up  at  him  kindly  and  indulgently.  “I  for¬ 
give  you,  Rudolph,”  said  Patricia. 

He  must  have  shown  that  pardon  from  Patricia  just 
now  was  not  unflavored  with  irony,  for  she  continued, 
in  another  voice:  “Who,  after  all,  is  the  one  human 
being  you  love?  You  know  that  it’s  the  boy,  and  just 
the  boy  alone.  I  gave  you  that  boy.  You  should 

remember  that,  I  think - ” 

“I  do  remember  it,  Patricia - ” 

“I  bore  the  child.  I  paid  the  price,  not  you,”  Pa¬ 
tricia  said,  very  quiet.  “No,  I  don’t  mean  the  price 
all  women  have  to  pay — * — ”  She  paused  in  their 
leisurely  progress,  and  drew  vague  outlines  in  the 
roadway  with  the  ferrule  of  her  umbrella  before  she 
looked  up  into  Rudolph  Musgrave’s  face.  She  ap¬ 
praised  it  for  a  long  while  and  quite  as  if  her  hus¬ 
band  were  a  stranger. 

“Yes,  I  could  make  you  very  sorry  for  me,  if  I 
wanted  to.”  Her  thoughts  ran  thus.  “But  what’s 
the  use?  You  could  only  become  an  interminable  nuis¬ 
ance  in  trying  to  soothe  my  dying  hours.  You  have 
just  obstinately  squatted  around  in  Lichfield  and  de¬ 
voted  all  your  time  to  being  beautiful  and  good  and 
mooning  around  women  for  I  don’t  know  how  many 
years.  You  make  me  tired,  and  I  have  half  a  mind 
to  tell  you  so  right  now.  And  there  really  is  no 
earthly  sense  in  attempting  to  explain  things  to  you. 

307 


You  have  so  got  into  the  habit  of  being  beautiful 
and  good  that  you  are  capable  of  quoting  Scripture 
after  I  have  finished.  Then  I  would  assuredly  box 
your  jaws,  because  I  don’t  yearn  to  be  a  poor  stricken 
dear  and  weep  on  anybody’s  bosom.  And  I  don’t 
particularly  care  about  your  opinion  of  me,  anyway.” 

Aloud  she  said:  “Oh,  well!  let’s  go  and  get  some 
breakfast.” 


308 


VII 


AND  thus  the  situation  stayed.  Patricia  told 
him  nothing.  And  Rudolph  Musgrave, 
knowing  that  according  to  his  lights  he  had 
behaved  not  unhandsomely,  was  the  merest  trifle 
patronizing  and  rather  like  a  person  speaking  from  a 
superior  plane  in  his  future  dealings  with  Patricia. 
Moreover,  he  was  engrossed  at  this  time  by  his  schol¬ 
arly  compilation  of  Lichfield  Legislative  Papers  prior 
to  1800,  which  was  printed  the  following  February. 

She  told  him  nothing.  She  was  a  devoted  mother 
for  two  days’  space,  and  then  candidly  decided  that 
Roger  was  developing  into  the  most  insufferable  of 
little  prigs. 

“And,  besides,  if  he  had  never  been  born  I  would 
quite  probably  have  lived  to  keep  my  teeth  in  a  glass 
of  water  at  night.  And  I  can’t  help  thinking  of 
that  privilege  being  denied  me  whenever  I  look  at 
him.” 

She  told  Rudolph  Musgrave  nothing.  She  was 
finding  it  mildly  amusing  to  note  how  people  came 
and  went  at  Matocton,  and  to  appraise  these  people 

309 


disinterestedly,  because  she  would  never  see  them 
again. 

Patricia  was  drawing  her  own  conclusions  as  to 
Lichfield’s  aristocracy.  These  people — for  the  most 
part  a  preposterously  handsome  race — were  the  pleas¬ 
antest  of  companions  and  their  manners  were  per¬ 
fection;  but  there  was  enough  of  old  Roger  Stapyl- 
ton’s  blood  in  Patricia’s  veins  to  make  her  feel,  how¬ 
ever  obscurely,  that  nobody  is  justified  in  living  with¬ 
out  even  an  attempt  at  any  personal  achievement.  The 
younger  men  evinced  a  marked  tendency  to  leave 
Lichfield,  to  make  their  homes  elsewhere,  she  noted, 
and  they  very  often  attained  prominence;  there  was 
Joe  Parkinson,  for  instance,  who  had  lunched  at 
Oyster  Bay  only  last  Thursday,  according  to  the 
Lichfield  Courier-Herald.  And,  meanwhile,  the  men 
of  her  husband’s  generation  clung  to  their  old  man¬ 
sions,  and  were  ornamental,  certainly,  and  were,  very 
certainly,  profoundly  self-satisfied;  for  they  adhered 
to  the  customs  of  yesterday  under  the  comfortable 
delusion  that  this  was  the  only  way  to  uphold  yes¬ 
terday’s  ideals.  But  what,  in  heaven’s  name,  had  any 
of  these  men  of  Rudolph  Musgrave’s  circle  ever  done 
beyond  enough  perfunctory  desk-work,  say,  to  fur¬ 
nish  him  food  and  clothes? 

“A  hamlet  of  Hamlets,”  was  Patricia’s  verdict  as 
to  Lichfield — “whose  actual  tragedy  isn’t  that  their 
fathers  were  badly  treated,  but  that  they  themselves 
are  constitutionally  unable  to  do  anything  except  talk 
about  how  badly  their  fathers  were  treated.” 

310 


HARVEST 


No,  it  was  not  altogether  that  these  men  were  in¬ 
dolent.  Rudolph  and  Rudolph’s  peers  had  been  reared 
in  the  belief  that  when  any  manual  labor  became  in¬ 
evitable,  you  as  a  matter  of  course  entrusted  its  ex¬ 
ecution  to  a  negro;  and,  forced  themselves  to  labor, 
they  not  unnaturally  complied  with  an  ever-present 
sense  of  unfair  treatment,  and,  in  consequence,  per¬ 
formed  the  work  inefficiently.  Lichfield  had  no  doubt 
preserved  a  comely  manner  of  living;  but  it  had  pro¬ 
duced  in  the  last  half-century  nothing  of  real  im¬ 
portance  except  John  Charter  is. 


3ii 


VIII 


FOR  Charteris  was  important.  Patricia  was  re¬ 
reading  all  the  books  that  Charteris  had  pub¬ 
lished,  and  they  engrossed  her  with  an  aug¬ 
menting  admiration. 

But  it  is  unnecessary  to  dilate  upon  the  marvelous 
and  winning  pictures  of  life  in  Lichfield  before  the 
War  between  the  States  which  Charteris  has  painted 
in  his  novels.  “Even  as  the  king  of  birds  that  with 
unwearied  wing  soars  nearest  to  the  sun,  yet  wears 
upon  his  breast  the  softest  down,” — as  we  learn  from 
no  less  eminent  authority  than  that  of  the  Lichfield 
Courier-Herald — “so  Mr.  Charteris  is  equally  expert 
in  depicting  the  derring-do  and  tenderness  of  those 
glorious  days  of  chivalry,  of  fair  women  and  brave 
men,  of  gentle  breeding,  of  splendid  culture  and 
wholesome  living.” 

Patricia  was  not  a  little  puzzled  by  these  books. 
The  traditional  Lichfield,  she  decided  in  the  outcome, 
may  very  possibly  have  been  just  the  trick-work  of 
a  charlatan’s  cleverness;  but,  even  in  that  event,  here 
were  the  tales  of  life  in  Lichfield — ardent,  sumptuous 
312 


HARVEST, 


and  fragrant  throughout  with  the  fragrance  of  love 
and  roses,  of  rhyme  and  of  youth’s  lovely  fallacies; 
and  for  the  pot-pourri,  if  it  deserved  no  higher  name, 
all  who  believed  that  living  ought  to  be  a  uniformly 
noble  transaction  could  not  fail  to  be  grateful  eternally. 

Esthetic  values  apart — and,  indeed,  to  all  such 
values  Patricia  accorded  a  provisional  respect — what 
most  impressed  her  Stapyltonian  mind  was  the  fact 
that  these  books  represented,  in  a  perfectly  tangible 
way,  success.  Patricia  very  heartily  admired  success 
when  it  was  brevetted  as  such  by  the  applause  of 
others.  And  while  to  be  a  noted  stylist,  and  even  to 
be  reasonably  sure  of  annotated  reissuement  for  the 
plaguing  of  unborn  schoolchildren,  was  all  well 
enough,  in  an  unimportant,  high-minded  way,  Pa¬ 
tricia  was  far  more  vividly  impressed  by  the  blunt 
figures  which  told  how  many  of  John  Charteris’s 
books  had  been  bought  and  paid  for.  She  accepted 
these  figures  as  his  publishers  gave  them  forth,  im¬ 
plicitly;  and  she  marveled  over  and  took  odd  joy  in 
these  figures.  They  enabled  her  to  admire  Char¬ 
teris’s  books  without  reservation. 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Ashmeade  had  managed,  in  the 
most  natural  manner,  to  tell  Patricia  a  deal  concern¬ 
ing  Charteris.  No  halo  graced  the  portrait  Mrs.  Ash¬ 
meade  painted.  .  .  .  But,  indeed,  Patricia  now  viewed 
John  Charteris,  considered  as  a  person,  without  any 
particular  bias.  She  did  not  especially  care — now — 
what  the  man  had  done  or  had  omitted  to  do. 

But  the  venerable  incongruity  of  the  writer  and  his 

313 


work  confronted  her  intriguingly.  A  Charteris  writes 
In  Old  Lichfield;  a  Cockney  drug-clerk  writes  The  Eve 
of  St.  Agnes;  a  genteel  printer  evolves  a  Lovelace; 
and  a  cutpurse  pens  the  Ballad  of  Dead  Ladies  in  a 
brothel.  It  is  manifestly  impossible;  and  it  happens. 

So  here,  then,  was  a  knave  who  held,  somehow, 
the  keys  to  a  courtlier,  and  nobler  world.  These 
tales  made  living  seem  a  braver  business,  for  all  that 
they  were  written  by  a  poltroon.  Was  it  pure  pos¬ 
turing?  Patricia,  at  least,  thought  it  was  not.  At 
worst,  such  dexterous  maintenance  of  a  pose  was 
hardly  despicable,  she  considered.  And,  anyhow,  she 
preferred  to  believe  that  Charteris  had  by  some  miracle 
put  the  best  of  himself  into  these  books,  had  some¬ 
how  clarified  the  abhorrent  mixture  of  ability  and 
evil  which  was  John  Charteris;  and  the  best  in  him 
she  found,  on  this  hypothesis,  to  be  a  deal  more  ad¬ 
mirable  than  the  best  in  Rudolph  Musgrave. 

“It  is  a  part  of  Jack,”  she  fiercely  said.  “It  is, 
because  I  know  it  is.  All  this  is  part  of  him — as  much 
a  part  of  him  as  the  cowardice  and  the  trickery. 
So  I  don’t  really  care  if  he  is  a  liar  and  a  coward.  I 
ought  to,  I  suppose.  But  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
I  admire  him.  He  has  made  something;  he  has  cre¬ 
ated  these  beautiful  books,  and  they  will  be  here 
when  we  are  all  dead.  He  doesn’t  leave  the  world 
just  as  he  found  it.  That  is  the  only  real  cowardice, 
I  think — especially  as  I  am  going  to  do  it - ” 

And  later  she  said,  belligerently:  “If  I  had  been 
a  man  I  could  have  at  least  assassinated  somebody 
314 


HARVEST 


who  was  prominent.  I  do  wish  Rudolph  was  not 
such  a  stick-in-the-mud.  And  I  wish  I  liked  Rudolph 
better.  But  on  the  whole  I  prefer  the  physical  coward 
to  the  moral  one.  Rudolph  simply  bores  me  stiff  with 
his  benevolent  airs.  He  just  walks  around  the  place 
forgiving  me  sixty  times  to  the  hour,  and  if  he  doesn’t 
stop  it  I  am  going  to  slap  him.” 

Thus  Patricia.  ^ 


3T5 


IX 


THE  world  knows  how  Charteris  was  killed  in 
Fairhaven  by  Jasper  Hardress — the  husband 
of  “that  flighty  Mrs.  Hardress”  Anne  had 
spoken  of. 

“And  I  hardly  know,”  said  Mrs.  Ashmeade, 
“whether  more  to  admire  the  justice  or  the  sardonic 
humor  of  the  performance.  Here  after  hundreds 
of  entanglements  with  women,  John  Charteris  man¬ 
ages  to  be  shot  by  a  jealous  maniac  on  account  of 
a  woman  with  whom — for  a  wonder — his  relations 
were  proven  to  be  innocent.  The  man  needed  kill¬ 
ing,  but  it  is  asking  too  much  of  human  nature  to  put 
up  with  his  being  made  a  martyr  of.” 

She  cried  a  little,  though.  “It — it’s  because  I  re¬ 
member  him  when  he  was  turning  out  his  first  mus¬ 
tache,”  she  explained,  lucidly. 

*  *  * 

But  with  the  horror  and  irony  of  John  Charteris’s 
assassination  the  biographer  of  Rudolph  Musgrave 
has  really  nothing  to  do  save  in  so  far  as  this  event 
influenced  the  life  of  Rudolph  Musgrave. 


HARVEST 


It  was  on  the  day  of  Charteris’s  death — a  fine,  clear 
afternoon  in  late  September — that  Rudolph  Musgrave 
went  bass-fishing  with  some  eight  of  his  masculine 
guests.  Luncheon  was  brought  to  them  in  a  boat 
about  two  o’clock,  along  with  the  day’s  mail. 

“I  say - !  But  listen,  everybody!”  cried  Alfred 

Chayter,  whose  mail  included  a  morning  paper — the 
Lichfield  Courier-Herald,  in  fact. 

He  read  aloud. 

“I  wish  I  could  be  with  Anne,”  thought  Colonel 
Musgrave.  “It  may  be  I  could  make  things  easier.” 

But  Anne  was  in  Lichfield  now.  .  .  . 

He  had  just  finished  dressing  for  supper  when  it 
occurred  to  him  that  since  their  return  from  the 
river  he  had  not  seen  Patricia.  He  was  afraid  that 
Patricia,  also,  would  be  upset  by  this  deplorable  news. 

As  he  crossed  the  hall  Virginia  came  out  of  Pa¬ 
tricia’s  rooms.  The  colonel  raised  his  voice  in  speak¬ 
ing  to  her,  for  with  age  Virginia  was  growing  very 
deaf. 

“Yaas,  suh,”  she  said,  “I’m  doin’  middlin’  well,  suh, 
thank  yeh,  suh.  Jus’  took  the  evenin’  mail  to  Miss 
Patricy,  like  I  always  do,  suh.”  She  went  away 
quietly,  her  pleasant  yellow  face  as  imperturbable  as 
an  idol’s. 

He  went  into  Patricia’s  bedroom.  Patricia  had 
been  taking  an  afternoon  nap,  and  had  not  risen  from 
the  couch,  where  she  lay  with  three  or  four  un¬ 
opened  letters  upon  her  breast.  Two  she  had  opened 
and  dropped  upon  the  floor.  She  seemed  not  to  hear 

317 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


him  when  he  spoke  her  name,  and  yet  she  was  not 
asleep,  because  her  eyes  were  partly  unclosed. 

There  was  no  purple  glint  in  them,  as  once  there 
had  been  always.  Her  countenance,  indeed,  showed 
everywhere  less  brightly  tinted  than  normally  it  should 
be.  Her  heavy  copper-colored  hair,  alone  undimmed, 
seemed,  like  some  parasitic  growth  (he  thought),  to 
sustain  its  beauty  by  virtue  of  having  drained  Pa¬ 
tricia’s  body  of  color  and  vitality. 

There  was  a  newspaper  in  her  right  hand,  with 
flamboyant  headlines,  because  to  Lichfield  the  death 
of  John  Charteris  was  an  event  of  importance. 

Patricia  seemed  very  young.  You  saw  that  she 
had  suffered.  You  knew  it  was  not  fair  to  hurt  a 
child  like  that. 

But,  indeed,  Rudolph  Musgrave  hardly  realized  as 
yet  that  Patricia  was  dead.  For  Colonel  Musgrave 
was  thinking  of  that  time  when  this  same  Patricia 
had  first  come  to  him,  fire-new  from  the  heart  of  an 
ancient  sunset,  and  he  had  noted,  for  the  first  time, 
that  her  hair  was  like  the  reflection  of  a  sunset  in 
rippling  waters,  and  that  her  mouth  was  an  incon¬ 
siderable  trifle,  a  scrap  of  sanguine  curves,  and  that 
her  eyes  were  purple  glimpses  of  infinity. 

“This  same  Patricia!”  he  said,  aloud. 


PART  NINE 


RELICS 


“You  have  chosen  the  love  ‘that  lives  sans  murmurings, 
Sans  passion/  and  incuriously  endures 
The  gradual  lapse  of  time.  You  have  chosen  as  yours 
A  level  life  of  little  happenings; 

And  through  the  long  autumnal  evenings 
Lord  Love,  no  doubt,  is  of  the  company, 

And  hugs  your  ingleside  contentedly, 

Smiles  at  old  griefs,  and  rustles  needless  wings. 

“And  yet  I  think  that  sometimes  memories 
Of  divers  trysts,  of  blood  that  urged  like  wine 
On  moonlit  nights,  and  of  that  first  long  kiss 
iWhereby  your  lips  were  first  made  one  with  mine, 
Awake  and  trouble  you,  and  loving  is 
Once  more  important  and  perhaps  divine.” 

.  Allen  Rossiter.  Two  in  October . 


I 


TO  those  who  knew  John  Charteris  only 
through  the  medium  of  the  printed  page  it 
must  have  appeared  that  the  novelist  was 
stayed  in  mid-career  by  an  accident  of  unrelieved 
and  singular  brutality.  And  truly,  thus  extinguished 
by  the  unfounded  jealousy  of  a  madman,  the  force 
of  Charteris’s  genius  seemed,  and  seems  to-day,  as 
emphasized  by  that  sinister  caprice  of  chance  which 
annihilated  it. 

But  people  in  Lichfield,  after  the  manner  of  each 
prophet’s  countrymen,  had  their  own  point  of  view. 
The  artist  always  stood  between  these  people  and  the 
artist’s  handiwork,  in  part  obscuring  it. 

In  any  event,  it  was  generally  agreed  in  Lichfield 
that  Anne  Charteris’s  conduct  after  her  husband’s 
death  was  not  all  which  could  be  desired.  To  begin 
with,  she  attended  the  funeral,  in  black,  it  was  true,  but 
wearing  only  the  lightest  of  net  veils  pinned  under 
her  chin — “more  as  if  she  were  going  somewhere 
on  the  train,  you  know,  than  as  if  she  were  in  genuine 
bereavement.” 


32 1 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


“Jack  didn’t  approve  of  mourning.  He  said  it  was 
a  heathen  survival.”  That  was  the  only  explanation 
she  offered. 

It  seemed  inadequate  to  Lichfield.  It  was  preferable, 
as  good  taste  went,  for  a  widow  to  be  too  overcome  to 
attend  her  husband’s  funeral  at  all.  And  Mrs.  Char- 
tens  had  not  wept  once  during  the  church  ceremony, 
and  had  not  even  had  hysterics  during  the  interment 
at  Cedarwood ;  and  she  had  capped  a  scandalous  morn¬ 
ing’s  work  by  remaining  with  the  undertaker  and  the 
bricklayers  to  supervise  the  closing  of  John  Charteris’s 
grave. 

“Why,  but  of  course.  It  is  the  last  thing  I  will 
ever  be  allowed  to  do  for  him,”  she  had  said,  in  in¬ 
nocent  surprise.  “Why  shouldn’t  I?” 

Her  air  was  such  that  you  were  loth  to  talk  to  her 
about  appearances. 

“Because  she  isn’t  a  bit  like  a  widow,”  as  Mrs.  Ash- 
meade  pointed  out.  “Anybody  can  condole  with  a 
widow,  and  devote  two  outer  sheets  to  explaining 
that  you  realize  nothing  you  can  say  will  be  of  any 
comfort  to  her,  and  begin  at  the  top  of  the  inside 
page  by  telling  her  how  much  better  off  he  is  to¬ 
day — which  I  have  always  thought  a  double-edged 
assertion  when  advanced  to  a  man’s  widow.  But  you 
cannot  condole  with  a  lantern  whose  light  has  been 
blown  out.  That  is  what  Anne  is.” 

Mrs.  Ashmeade  meditated  and  appeared  dissatis¬ 
fied.  “And  John  Charteris  of  all  people !” 

Anne  was  presently  about  the  Memorial  Edition  of 
322 


RELICS 


her  husband’s  collected  writings.  It  was  magnificently 
printed  and  when  marketed  achieved  a  flattering  suc¬ 
cess.  Robert  Etheridge  Townsend  was  commissioned 
to  write  the  authorized  Life  of  John  Charteris  and  to 
arrange  the  two  volumes  of  Letters. 

Anne  was  considered  an  authority  on  literature  and 
art  in  general,  through  virtue  of  reflected  glory.  And 
in  the  interviews  she  granted  various  journalists  it 
was  noticeable  that  she  no  longer  referred  to  “Jack” 
or  to  “Mr.  Charteris,”  but  to  “my  husband.”  To 
have  been  his  wife  was  her  one  claim  on  estima¬ 
tion.  And,  for  the  rest,  it  is  inadequate  to  love  the 
memory  of  a  martyr.  Worship  is  demanded;  and  so 
the  wife  became  the  priestess. 


323 


II 


INTO  Colonel  Musgrave’s  mental  processes  during 
this  period  it  will  not  do  to  pry  too  closely.  The 
man  had  his  white  nights  and  his  battles,  in  part 
with  real  grief  and  regret,  and  in  part  with  sundry 
emotions  which  he  took  on  faith  as  the  emotions  he 
ought  to  have,  and,  therefore,  manifestly,  suffered 
under.  .  .  .  “Patricia  was  my  wife,  Jack  was  my 
brother,”  ran  his  verdict  in  the  outcome;  and  be¬ 
yond  that  he  did  not  care  to  go. 

For  death  cowed  his  thoughts.  In  the  colonel's 
explicit  theology  dead  people  were  straightway  con¬ 
veyed  to  either  one  or  the  other  of  two  places.  He 
had  very  certainly  never  known  anybody  who  in  his 
opinion  merited  the  torments  of  his  orthodox  Ge¬ 
henna;  so  that  in  imagination  he  vaguely  populated 
its  blazing  corridors  with  Nero  and  Judas  and  Caesar 
Borgia  and  Henry  VIII,  and  Spanish  Inquisitors  and 
the  aboriginal  American  Indians — excepting  of  course 
his  ancestress  Pocahontas — and  with  Benedict  Arnold 
and  all  the  “carpet-baggers”  and  suchlike  other  emi¬ 
nent  practitioners  of  depravity.  For  no  one  whom 

324 


RELICS 


Rudolph  Musgrave  had  ever  encountered  in  the  flesh 
had  been  really  and  profoundly  wicked,  Rudolph  Mus¬ 
grave  considered;  and  so,  he  always  gravely  esti¬ 
mated  this-or-that  acquaintance,  after  death,  to  be 
“better  off,  poor  fellow” — as  the  colonel  phrased  it, 
with  a  tinge  of  self-contradiction — even  if  he  actually 
refrained  in  fancy  from  endowing  the  deceased  with 
aureate  harps  and  crowns  and  footgear.  In  fine, 
death  cowed  the  colonel’s  thoughts ;  beyond  the  grave 
they  did  not  care  to  venture,  and  when  confronted 
with  that  abyss  they  decorously  balked. 

Patricia  and  Jack  were  as  a  matter  of  course  “bet¬ 
ter  off,”  then — and,  miraculously  purged  of  faults, 
with  all  their  defects  somehow  remedied,  the  colonel’s 
wife  and  brother,  with  Agatha  and  the  colonel’s  other 
interred  relatives,  were  partaking  of  dignified  joys 
in  bright  supernal  iridescent  realms,  which  the  colonel 
resignedly  looked  forward  to  entering,  on  some  com¬ 
fortably  remote  day  or  another,  and  thus  rejoining 
his  transfigured  kindred.  .  .  .  Such  was  the  colonel’s 
charitable  decision,  in  the  forming  whereof  logic  was 
in  no  way  implicated.  For  religion,  as  the  colonel 
would  have  told  you  sedately,  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
reasoned  about.  Attempting  to  do  that,  you  became  in 
Rudolph  Musgrave’s  honest  eyes  regrettably  flippant. 

Meanwhile  Cousin  Lucy  Fentnor  was  taking  care 
of  the  colonel  and  little  Roger.  And  Lichfield,  long 
before  the  lettering  on  Patricia’s  tombstone  had  time 
to  lose  its  first  light  dusty  gray,  had  accredited  Cousin 
Lucy  Fentnor  with  illimitable  willingness  to  become 

325 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


Mrs.  Rudolph  Musgrave,  upon  proper  solicitation,  al¬ 
though  such  tittle-tattle  is  neither  here  nor  there;  for 
at  worst,  a  widowed,  childless  and  impoverished  sec¬ 
ond-cousin,  discreetly  advanced  in  her  forties,  was  en¬ 
titled  to  keep  house  for  the  colonel  in  his  bereavement, 
as  a  jointly  beneficial  arrangement,  without  provoking 
scandal’s  tongue  to  more  than  a  jocose  innuendo 
or  two  when  people  met  for  “auction” — that  new- 
fangled  perplexing  variant  of  bridge,  just  introduced, 
wherein  you  bid  on  the  suits.  .  .  .  And,  besides, 
Cousin  Lucy  Fentnor  (as  befitted  any  one  born  an 
Allardyce)  was  to  all  accounts  a  notable  housekeeper, 
famed  alike  for  the  perilous  glassiness  of  her  hard¬ 
wood  floors,  her  dexterous  management  of  servants, 
her  Honiton-braid  fancy-work  (familiar  to  every 
patron  of  Lichfield  charity  bazaars),  and  her  unparal¬ 
leled  calves-foot  jelly.  Under  Cousin  Lucy  Fentnor’s 
systematized  coddling  little  Roger  grew  like  the 
proverbial  ill  weed,  and  the  colonel  likewise  waxed 
perceptibly  in  girth. 

Thus  it  was  that  accident  and  a  woman’s  inter¬ 
vention  seemed  once  more  to  combine  in  shielding 
Rudolph  Musgrave  from  discomfort.  And  in  con¬ 
sequence  it  was  considered  improbable  that  at  this 
late  day  the  colonel  would  do  the  proper  thing  by 
Clarice  Pendomer,  as,  at  the  first  tidings  of  Patricia’s 
death,  had  been  authentically  rumored  among  the  im¬ 
aginative;  and,  in  fact,  Lichfield  no  longer  consid¬ 
ered  that  necessary.  The  claim  of  outraged  morality 
against  these  two  had  been  thrown  out  of  court, 
326 


RELICS 


through  some  unworded  social  statute  of  limitation, 
as  far  as  Lichfield  went.  Of  course  it  was  interesting 
to  note  that  the  colonel  called  at  Mrs.  Pendomer’s 
rather  frequently  nowadays;  but,  then,  Clarice  Pen- 
domer  had  all  sorts  of  callers  now — though  not  many 
in  skirts — and  she  played  poker  with  men  for  money 
until  unregenerate  hours  of  the  night,  and  was  re¬ 
puted  with  a  wealth  of  corroborative  detail  to  have 
even  less  discussable  sources  of  income:  so  that,  in¬ 
deed,  Clarice  Pendomer  was  now  rather  precariously 
retained  within  the  social  pale  through  her  initial  pre¬ 
caution  of  having  been  born  a  Bellingham.  .  .  .  But 
all  such  tittle-tattle,  as  has  been  said,  is  quite  beside  the 
mark,  since  with  the  decadence  of  Clarice  Pendomer 
this  chronicle  has,  in  the  outcome,  as  scant  concern 
as  with  the  marital  aspirations  of  Cousin  Lucy 
Fentnor. 

And,  moreover,  the  colonel — in  colloquial  phrase  at 
least — went  everywhere.  After  the  six  months  of 
comparative  seclusion  which  decency  exacted  of  his 
widowerhood — and  thereby  afforded  him  ample  leisure 
to  complete  and  publish  his  Lichfield  Legislative  Pa¬ 
pers  prior  to  1800 — the  colonel,  be  it  repeated,  went 
everywhere ;  and  people  found  him  no  whit  the  worse 
company  for  his  black  gloves  and  the  somber  band 
stitched  to  his  coatsleeve.  So  Lichfield  again  received 
him  gladly,  as  the  social  triumph  of  his  generation. 
Handsome  and  trim  and  affable,  no  imaginable  tour¬ 
ist  could  possibly  have  divined — for  everybody  in 
Lichfield  knew,  of  course — that  Rudolph  Musgrave 

327 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER'S  NECK 


had  rounded  his  half-century;  and  he  stayed,  as  ever, 
invaluable  to  Lichfield  matrons  alike  against  the  en¬ 
tertainment  of  an  “out-of-town”  girl,  the  management 
of  a  cotillon,  and  the  prevention  of  unpleasant  pauses 
among  incongruous  dinner-companies. 

But  of  Anne  Charteris  he  saw  very  little  nowadays. 
And,  indeed,  it  was  of  her  own  choice  that  Anne 
lived  apart  from  Lichfieldian  junketings,  contented 
with  her  dreams  and  her  pride  therein,  and  her  re¬ 
morseful  tender  memories  of  the  things  she  might 
have  done  for  Jack  and  had  not  done — lived  upon 
exalted  levels  nowadays,  to  which  the  colonel’s  more 
urbane  bereavement  did  not  aspire. 


328 


1 


III 


CHARTERIS”  was  engraved  in  large,  raised  let¬ 
ters  upon  the  granite  coping  over  which  Anne 
stepped  to  enter  the  trim  burial-plot  wherein 
her  dead  lay. 

The  place  to-day  is  one  of  the  “points  of  interest” 
in  Cedarwood.  Tourists,  passing  through  Lichfield, 
visit  it  as  inevitably  as  they  do  the  graves  of  the 
Presidents,  the  Southern  generals  and  the  many  other 
famous  people  which  the  old  cemetery  contains;  and 
the  negro  hackmen  of  Lichfield  are  already  profuse 
in  inaccurate  information  concerning  its  occupant. 
In  a  phrase,  the  post  card  which  pictures  “E  9436 — < 
Grave  of  John  Charteris”  is  among  the  seven  similar 
misinterpretations  of  localities  most  frequently  de¬ 
manded  in  Lichfieldian  drugstores  and  news-stands. 

Her  victoria  had  paused  a  trifle  farther  up  the  hill, 
where  two  big  sycamores  overhung  the  roadway.  She 
came  into  the  place  alone,  walking  quickly,  for  she 
was  unwarrantably  flustered  by  her  late  encounter. 
And  when  she  found,  of  all  people,  Rudolph  Mus- 
grave  standing  by  her  husband’s  grave,  as  in  a  sort 

329 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


of  puzzled  and  yet  reverent  meditation,  she  was,  and 
somehow  as  half-guiltily,  assuring  herself  there  was 
no  possible  reason  for  the  repugnance — nay,  the  rage, 
— which  a  mere  glimpse  of  trudging,  painted  and  flam¬ 
boyant  Clarice  Pendomer  had  kindled.  Yet  it  must 
be  recorded  that  Anne  had  always  detested  Clarice. 

Now  Anne  spoke,  as  the  phrase  runs,  before  she 
thought.  “She  came  with  you!” 

And  he  answered,  as  from  the  depths  of  an  un¬ 
called-for  comprehension  which  was  distinctly  irri¬ 
tating  : 

“Yes.  And  Harry,  too,  for  that  matter.  Only  our 
talk  got  somehow  to  be  not  quite  the  sort  it  would 
be  salutary  for  him  to  take  an  interest  in.  So  we 
told  Harry  to  walk  on  slowly  to  the  gate,  and  be 
sure  not  to  do  any  number  of  things  he  would  never 
have  thought  of  if  we  hadn’t  suggested  them.  You 
know  how  people  are  with  children - ” 

“Harry  is — her  boy?”  Anne,  being  vexed,  had  al¬ 
most  added — “and  yours?” 

“Oh - !  Say  the  fons  et  origo  of  the  Pendomer 

divorce  case,  poor  little  chap.  Yes,  Harry  is  her 
boy.” 

Anne  said,  and  again,  as  she  perceived  within  the 
moment,  a  thought  too  expeditiously:  “I  wish  you 
wouldn’t  bring  them  here,  Colonel  Musgrave.” 

Indeed,  it  seemed  to  her  flat  desecration  that  Mus¬ 
grave  should  have  brought  his  former  mistress  into 
this  hallowed  plot  of  ground.  She  did  not  mind — 
illogically,  perhaps — his  bringing  the  child. 

330 


RELICS 


“Eh - ?  Oh,  yes,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave.  He 

was  sensibly  nettled.  “You  wish  ‘Colonel  Musgrave’ 
wouldn’t  bring  them  here.  But  then,  you  see,  we  had 
been  to  Patricia’s  grave.  And  we  remembered  how 
Jack  stood  by  us  both  when — when  things  bade  fair 
to  be  even  more  unpleasant  for  Clarice  and  myself 
than  they  actually  were.  You  shouldn’t,  I  think, 
grudge  even  such  moral  reprobates  the  privilege  of 
being  properly  appreciative  of  what  he  did  for  both 
of  us.  Besides,  you  always  come  on  Saturdays,  you 
know.  We  couldn’t  very  well  anticipate  that  you 
would  be  here  this  afternoon.” 

So  he  had  been  at  pains  to  spy  upon  her!  Anne 
phrased  it  thus  in  her  soul,  being  irritated,  and  crisply 
answered : 

“I  am  leaving  Lichfield  to-morrow.  I  had  meant 
this  to  be  my  farewell  to  them  until  October.” 

Colonel  Musgrave  had  glanced  toward  the  little 
headstone,  with  its  rather  lengthy  epitaph,  which 
marked  the  resting-place  of  this  woman’s  only  child; 
and  then  to  the  tall  shaft  whereon  was  engraved  just 
“John  Charteris.”  The  latter  inscription  was  very 
characteristic  of  her  viewpoint,  he  reflected;  and  yet 
reasonable,  too;  as  one  might  mention  a  Hector  or 
a  Goethe,  say,  without  being  at  pains  to  disclaim  al¬ 
lusion  to  the  minor  sharers  of  either  name. 

“Yes,”  he  said.  “Well,  I  shall  not  intrude.” 

“No — wait,”  she  dissented. 

Her  voice  was  altered  now,  for  there  had  come  into 
it  a  marvelous  gentleness. 


33i 


And  Colonel  Musgrave  remained  motionless.  The 
whole  world  was  motionless,  ineffably  expectant,  as  it 
seemed  to  him. 

Sunset  was  at  hand.  On  one  side  was  the  high 
wooden  fence  which  showed  the  boundary  of  Cedar- 
wood,  and  through  its  palings  and  above  it,  was  visi¬ 
ble  the  broad,  shallow  river,  comfortably  colored, 
for  the  most  part,  like  cafe  au  lait,  but  flecked  with 
many  patches  of  foam  and  flat  iron-colored  rocks  and 
innumerable  islets,  some  no  bigger  than  a  billiard- 
table,  but  with  even  the  tiniest  boasting  a  tree  or  two. 
On  the  other — westward — was  a  mounting  vista  of 
close-shaven  turf,  and  many  copings,  like  magnified 
geometrical  problems,  and  a  host  of  stunted  growing 
things — with  the  staid  verdancy  of  evergreens  pre¬ 
dominant — and  a  multitude  of  candid  shafts  and  slabs 
and  crosses  and  dwarfed  lambs  and  meditant  angels. 

Some  of  these  thronged  memorials  were  tinged 
with  violet,  and  others  were  a-glitter  like  silver,  just 
as  the  ordered  trees  shaded  them  or  no  from  the 
low  sun.  The  disposition  of  all  worldly  affairs,  the 
man  dimly  knew,  was  very  anciently  prearranged  by 
an  illimitable  and,  upon  the  whole,  a  kindly  wisdom. 

She  was  considering  the  change  in  him.  Anne  was 
recollecting  that  Colonel  Musgrave  had  somewhat 
pointedly  avoided  her  since  her  widowhood.  He 
seemed  almost  a  stranger  nowadays. 

And  she  could  not  recognize  in  the  man  any  re¬ 
semblance  to  the  boy  whom  she  remembered — so  long 
ago — excepting  just  his  womanish  mouth,  which  was 
33^ 


RELICS 


as  in  the  old  time  very  full  and  red  and  sensitive. 
And,  illogically  enough,  both  this  great  change  in  him 
and  this  one  feature  that  had  never  changed  annoyed 
her  equally. 

She  was  also  worried  by  his  odd  tone  of  flippancy. 
It  jarred,  it  vaguely — for  the  phrase  has  no  equiv¬ 
alent — “rubbed  her  the  wrong  way.”  Here  at  a  mar¬ 
tyr’s  tomb  it  was  hideously  out-of-place,  and  yet  she 
did  not  see  her  way  clear  to  rebuke.  So  she  remained 
silent. 

But  Rudolph  Musgrave  was  uncanny  in  some  re¬ 
spects.  For  he  said  within  the  moment,  “I  am  not  a 
bit  like  John  Charteris,  am  I?” 

“No,”  she  answered,  quietly.  It  had  been  her  ac¬ 
tual  thought. 

Anne  stayed  a  tiny  while  quite  motionless.  Her 
eyes  saw  nothing  physical.  It  was  the  attitude, 
Colonel  Musgrave  reflected,  of  one  who  listens  to  a 
far-off  music  and,  incommunicably,  you  knew  that 
the  music  was  of  a  martial  sort.  She  was  all  in  black, 
of  course,  very  slim  and  pure  and  beautiful.  The 
great  cluster  of  red  roses,  loosely  held,  was  like  blood 
against  the  somber  gown. 

The  widow  of  John  Charteris,  in  fine,  was  a  very 
different  person  from  that  Anne  Willoughby  whom 
Rudolph  Musgrave  had  loved  so  long  and  long  ago. 
This  woman  had  tasted  of  tonic  sorrows  unknown  to 
Rudolph  Musgrave,  and  had  got  consolation  too,  some¬ 
how,  in  far  half-credible  uplands  unvisited  by  him. 
But,  he  knew,  she  lived,  and  was  so  exquisite,  mainly 

333 


by  virtue  of  that  delusion  which  he,  of  all  men,  had 
preserved ;  Anne  Charteris  was  of  his  creation,  his  mas¬ 
terpiece  ;  and  viewing  her,  he  was  aware  of  great  rever¬ 
ence  and  joy. 

Anne  was  happy.  It  was  for  that  he  had  played. 

But  aloud,  “I  am  envious,”  Rudolph  Musgrave  de¬ 
clared.  “He  is  the  single  solitary  man  I  ever  knew 
whose  widow  was  contented  to  be  simply  his  relict 
for  ever  and  ever,  amen.  For  you  will  always  be 
just  the  woman  John  Charteris  loved,  won’t  you? 
Yes,  if  you  lived  to  be  thirty-seven  years  older  than 
Methuselah,  and  every  genius  and  potentate  in  the 
world  should  come  awooing  in  the  meantime,  it  never 
would  occur  to  you  that  you  could  possibly  be  any¬ 
thing,  even  to  an  insane  person,  except  his  relict.  And 
he  has  been  dead  now  all  of  three  whole  years!  So  I 
am  envious,  just  as  we  ordinary  mortals  can’t  help 
being  of  you  both;  and — may  I  say  it? — I  am  glad.” 


334 


IV 


THEY  were  standing  thus  when  a  boy  of  ten 
or  eleven  came  unhurriedly  into  the  “sec¬ 
tion.”  He  assumed  possession  of  Colonel 
Musgrave’s  hand  as  though  the  action  were  a  matter 
of  course. 

“I  got  lost,  Colonel  Musgrave,”  the  child  compos¬ 
edly  announced.  “I  walked  ever  so  far,  and  the  gate 
wasn’t  where  we  left  it.  And  the  roads  kept  turn¬ 
ing  and  twisting  so,  it  seemed  I’d  never  get  anywhere. 
I  don’t  like  being  lost  when  it’s  getting  dark  and 
there’s  so  many  dead  people  ’round,  do  you?” 

The  colonel  was  moved  to  disapproval.  “Young 
man,  I  suppose  your  poor  deserted  mother  is  looking 
for  you  everywhere,  and  has  probably  torn  out  every 
solitary  strand  of  hair  she  possesses  by  this  time.” 

“I  reckon  she  is,”  the  boy  assented.  The  topic  did 
not  appear  to  be  in  his  eyes  of  preeminent  importance. 

Then  Anne  Charteris  said,  “Harry,”  and  her  voice 
was  such  that  Rudolph  Musgrave  wheeled  with 
amazement  in  his  face. 

The  boy  had  gone  to  her  complaisantly,  and  she 
stood  now  with  one  hand  on  either  of  his  shoulders, 

335 


regarding  him.  Her  lips  were  parted,  but  they  did 
not  move  at  all. 

“You  are  Mrs.  Pendomer’s  boy,  aren’t  you?”  said 
Anne  Charteris,  in  a  while.  She  had  some  difficulty 
in  articulation. 

“Yes’m,”  Harry  assented,  “and  we  come  here 
’most  every  Wednesday,  and,  please,  ma’am,  you’re 
hurtin’  me.” 

“I  didn’t  mean  to — dear,”  the  woman  added,  pain¬ 
fully.  “Don’t  interfere  with  me,  Rudolph  Musgrave ! 
Your  mother  must  be  very  fond  of  you,  Harry.  I 
had  a  little  boy  once.  I  was  fond  of  him.  He  would 
have  been  eleven  years  old  last  February.” 

“Please,  ma’am,  I  wasn’t  eleven  till  April,  and  I 
ain’t  tall  for  my  age,  but  Tubby  Parsons  says - ” 

The  woman  gave  an  odd,  unhuman  sound.  “Not 
until  April !” 

“Harry,”  said  Colonel  Musgrave  then,  “an  enor¬ 
mous  whale  is  coming  down  the  river  in  precisely  two 
minutes.  Perhaps  if  you  were  to  look  through  the 
palings  of  that  fence  you  might  see  him.  I  don’t 
suppose  you  would  care  to,  though?” 

And  Harry  strolled  resignedly  toward  the  fence. 
Harry  Pendomer  did  not  like  this  funny  lady  who  had 
hurt,  frightened  eyes.  He  did  not  believe  in  the  whale, 
of  course,  any  more  than  he  did  in  Santa  Claus.  But 
like  most  children,  he  patiently  accepted  the  fact  that 
grown  people  are  unaccountable  overlords  appointed 
by  some  vast  betise ,  whom,  if  only  through  prudential 
motives,  it  is  preferable  to  humor. 

336 


V 


COLONEL  MUSGRAVE  stood  now  upon  the 
other  side  of  John  Charteris’s  grave — just 
in  the  spot  that  was  reserved  for  her  own 
occupancy  some  day. 

“You  are  ill,  Anne.  You  are  not  fit  to  be  out.  Go 
home.,, 

“I  had  a  little  boy  once,”  she  said.  “  ‘But  that's 
all  past  and  gone,  and  good  times  and  bad  times  and 
all  times  pass  over.'  There's  an  odd  simple  music 
in  the  sentence,  isn’t  there?  Yet  I  remember  it  chiefly 
because  I  used  to  read  that  book  to  him  and  he  loved 
it.  And  it  was  my  child  that  died.  Why  is  this  other 
child  so  like  him?” 

“Oh,  then,  that’s  it,  is  it?”  said  Rudolph  Musgrave, 
as  in  relief.  “Bless  me,  I  suppose  all  these  little  shav¬ 
ers  are  pretty  much  alike.  I  can  only  tell  Roger  from 
the  other  boys  by  his  red  head.  Humanity  in  the  raw, 
you  know.  Still,  it  is  no  wonder  it  gave  you  a  turn. 
You  had  much  better  go  home,  however,  and  not  take 
any  foolish  risks,  and  put  your  feet  in  hot  water,  and 
rub  cologne  on  your  temples,  and  do  all  the  other  suit¬ 
able  things - ” 


337 


“I  remember  now,”  she  continued,  without  any  ap¬ 
parent  emotion,  and  as  though  he  had  not  spoken. 
“When  I  came  into  the  room  you  were  saying  that 
the  child  must  be  considered.  You  were  both  very 
angry,  and  I  was  alarmed — foolishly  alarmed,  perhaps. 
And  my — and  John  Charteris  said,  ‘Let  him  tell,  then’ 
— and  you  told  me - ” 

“The  truth,  Anne.” 

“And  he  sat  quietly  by.  Oh,  if  he’d  had  the  grace, 

the  common  manliness - !”  She  shivered  here. 

“But  he  never  interrupted  you.  I — I  was  not  looking 
at  him.  I  was  thinking  how  vile  you  were.  And 
when  you  had  ended,  he  said,  ‘My  dear,  I  am  sorry 
you  should  have  been  involved  in  this.  But  since  you 
are,  I  think  we  can  assure  Rudolph  that  both  of  us 
will  regard  his  confidence  as  sacred.’  Then  I  remem¬ 
bered  him,  and  thought  how  noble  he  was!  And  all 
those  years  that  were  so  happy,  hour  by  hour,  he  was 
letting  you — meet  his  bills!”  She  seemed  to  wrench 
out  the  inadequate  metaphor. 

You  could  hear  the  far-off  river,  now,  faint  as  the 
sound  of  boiling  water. 

After  a  few  pacings  Colonel  Musgrave  turned  upon 
her.  He  spoke  with  a  curious  simplicity. 

“There  isn’t  any  use  in  lying  to  you.  You  wouldn’t 
believe.  You  would  only  go  to  some  one  else — some 
woman  probably, — who  would  jump  at  the  chance  of 
telling  you  everything  and  a  deal  more.  Yes,  there 
are  a  great  many  ‘they  do  say’s’  floating  about.  This 
was  the  only  one  that  came  near  being — serious.  The 

338 


RELICS 


man  was  very  clever. — Oh,  he  wasn’t  vulgarly  lecher¬ 
ous.  He  was  simply — Jack  Charteris.  He  always  ir¬ 
ritated  Lichfield,  though,  by  not  taking  Lichfield  very 
seriously.  You  would  hear  every  by-end  of  retaliative 
,  and  sniggered-over  mythology,  and  in  your  present 
state  of  mind  you  would  believe  all  of  them.  I  hap¬ 
pen  to  know  that  a  great  many  of  these  stories  are 
not  true.” 

“A  great  many  of  these  stories,”  Anne  repeated, 
“aren’t  true!  A  great  many  aren’t!  That  ought  to 
be  consoling,  oughtn’t  it  ?”  She  spoke  without  a  trace 
of  bitterness. 

“I  express  myself  very  badly.  What  I  really  mean, 
what  I  am  aiming  at,  is  that  I  wish  you  would  let  me 
answer  any  questions  you  might  like  to  ask,  because 
I  will  answer  them  truthfully.  Very  few  people 
would.  You  see,  you  go  about  the  world  so  like  a 
gray-stone  saint  who  has  just  stepped  down  from  her 
niche  for  the  fraction  of  a  second,”  he  added,  as  with 
venom,  “that  it  is  only  human  nature  to  dislike  you.” 

Anne  was  not  angry.  It  had  come  to  her,  quite  as 
though  she  were  considering  some  other  woman,  that 
what  the  man  said  was,  in  a  fashion,  true. 

“There  is  sunlight  and  fresh  air  in  the  street,”  John 
Charteris  had  been  wont  to  declare,  “and  there  is  a 
culvert  at  the  corner.  I  think  it  is  a  mistake  for  us 
to  emphasize  the  culvert.” 

So  he  had  trained  her  to  disbelieve  in  its  existence. 
She  saw  this  now.  It  did  not  matter.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  nothing  mattered  any  more. 


339 


“I’ve  only  one  question,  I  think.  Why  did  you  do 
it?”  She  spoke  with  bright  amazement  in  her  eyes. 

“Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!”  he  seriocomically  de¬ 
plored.  “Why,  because  it  was  such  a  noble  thing  to 
do.  It  was  so  like  the  estimable  young  man  in  a  play, 
you  know,  who  acknowledges  the  crime  he  never  com¬ 
mitted  and  takes  a  curtain-call  immediately  after¬ 
wards.  In  fine,  I  simply  observed  to  myself,  with  the 
late  Monsieur  de  Bergerac,  ‘But  what  a  gesture  !’  ” 
And  he  parodied  an  actor’s  motion  in  this  role. 

She  stayed  unsmiling  and  patiently  awaiting  verac¬ 
ity.  Anne  did  not  understand  that  Colonel  Musgrave 
was  telling  the  absolute  truth.  And  so, 

“You  haven’t  any  sense  of  humor,”  he  lamented. 
“You  used  to  have  a  deal,  too,  before  you  took  to 
being  conscientiously  cheerful,  and  diffusing  sweet¬ 
ness  and  light  among  your  cowering  associates.  Well, 
it  was  because  it  helped  him  a  little.  Oh,  I  am  being 
truthful  now.  I  had  some  reason  to  dislike  Jack  Char- 
teris,  but  odd  as  it  is,  I  know  to-day  I  never  did. 
I  ought  to  have,  perhaps.  But  I  didn’t.” 

“My  friend,  you  are  being  almost  truthful.  But  I 
want  the  truth  entire.” 

“It  isn’t  polite  to  disbelieve  people,”  he  reproved 
her;  “or  at  the  very  least,  according  to  the  best  books 
on  etiquette,  you  ought  not  to  do  it  audibly.  Would 
you  mind  if  I  smoked?  I  could  be  more  veracious 
then.  There  is  something  in  tobacco  that  makes  frank¬ 
ness  a  matter  of  course.  I  thank  you.” 

He  produced  an  amber  holder,  fitted  a  cigarette 
340 


RELICS 


into  it,  and  presently  inhaled  twice.  He  said,  with 
a  curt  voice : 

“The  reason,  naturally,  was  you.  You  may  re¬ 
member  certain  things  that  happened  just  before  John 
Charteris  came  and  took  you.  Oh,  that  is  precisely 
what  he  did !  You  are  rather  a  narrow-minded  woman 
now,  in  consequence — or  in  my  humble  opinion,  at 
least — and  deplorably  superior.  It  pleased  the  man 
to  have  in  his  house — if  you  will  overlook  my  ven¬ 
turing  into  metaphor, — one  cool  room  very  sparsely 
furnished  where  he  could  come  when  the  mood  seized 
him.  He  took  the  raw  material  from  me,  wherewith 
to  build  that  room,  because  he  wanted  that  room.  I 
acquiesced,  because  I  had  not  the  skill  wherewith  to 
fight  him/’ 

Anne  understood  him  now,  as  with  a  great  drench 
of  surprise.  And  fear  was  what  she  felt  in  chief  when 
she  saw  for  just  this  moment  as  though  it  had  light¬ 
ened,  the  man’s  face  transfigured,  and  tender,  and 
strange  to  her. 

“I  tried  to  buy  your  happiness,  to — yes,  just  to 
keep  you  blind  indefinitely.  Had  the  price  been 
heavier,  I  would  have  paid  it  the  more  gladly.  Fate 
has  played  a  sorry  trick.  Yon  would  never  have  seen 
through  him.  My  dear,  I  have  wanted  very  often 
to  shake  you,”  he  said. 

And  she  knew,  in  a  glorious  terror,  that  she  de¬ 
sired  him  to  shake  her,  and  as  she  had  never  desired 
anything  else  in  life. 

“Oh,  well,  I  am  just  a  common,  ordinary,  garden- 

341 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER'S  NECK 


sort  of  fool.  The  Musgraves  always  are,  in  one 
fashion  or  another,”  he  sulkily  concluded.  And  now 
the  demigod  was  merely  Rudolph  Musgrave  again, 
and  she  was  not  afraid  any  longer,  but  only  inexpressi¬ 
bly  fordone. 

.  “Isn’t  that  like  a  woman?”  he  presently  demanded 
of  the  June  heavens.  “To  drag  something  out  of  a 
man  with  inflexibility,  monomania  and  moral  grap¬ 
pling-irons,  and  then  not  like  it!  Oh,  very  well!  I 
am  disgusted  by  your  sex’s  axiomatic  variability.  I 
shall  take  Harry  to  his  fond  mamma  at  once.” 

She  did  not  say  anything.  A  certain  new  discovery 
obsessed  her  like  a  piece  of  piercing  music. 

Then  Rudolph  Musgrave  gave  the  tiniest  of  ges¬ 
tures  downward.  “And  I  have  told  you  this,  in  chief, 
because  we  two  remember  him.  He  wanted  you.  He 
took  you.  You  are  his.  You  will  always  be.  He 
gave  you  just  a  fragment  of  himself.  That  fragment 
was  worth  more  than  everything  I  had  to  offer.” 

Anne  very  carefully  arranged  her  roses  on  the  ivy- 
covered  grave.  “I  do  not  know — meanwhile,  I  give 
these  to  our  master.  And  my  real  widowhood  begins 
to-day.” 

And  as  she  rose  he  looked  at  her  across  the  color¬ 
ful  mound,  and  smiled,  half  as  with  embarrassment. 
A  lie,  he  thought,  might  ameliorate  the  situation,  and 
he  bravely  hazarded  a  prodigious  one.  “Is  it  necessary 
to  tell  you  that  Jack  loved  you?  And  that  the  others 
never  really  counted?” 

He  rejoiced  to  see  that  Anne  believed  him.  “No,” 
342 


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she  assented,  “no,  not  with  him.  Oddly  enough,  I  am 
proud  of  that,  even  now.  But — don't  you  see? — I 
never  loved  him.  I  was  just  his  priestess — the  priest¬ 
ess  of  a  stucco  god!  Otherwise,  I  would  know  it 
wasn’t  his  fault,  but  altogether  that  of — the  others.” 

He  grimaced  and  gave  a  bantering  flirt  of  his  head. 
He  said,  with  quizzing  eyes : 

“Would  it  do  any  good  to  quote  Lombroso,  and 
Maudsley,  and  Gall,  and  Krafft-Ebing,  and  Flechsig, 
and  so  on?  and  to  tell  you  that  the  excessive  use  of 
one  brain  faculty  must  necessarily  cause  a  lack  of 
nutriment  to  all  the  other  brain-cells?  It  would  be 
rather  up-to-date.  There  is  a  deal  I  could  tell  you 
also  as  to  what  poisonous  blood  he  inherited;  but  to 
do  this  I  have  not  the  right.”  And  then  Rudolph  Mus- 
grave  said  in  all  sincerity :  “  ‘A  wild,  impetuous 

whirlwind  of  passion  and  faculty  slumbered  quiet 
there;  such  heavenly  melody  dwelling  in  the  heart 
of  it.’  ” 

She  had  put  aside  alike  the  drolling  and  the  pal¬ 
liative  suggestion,  like  flimsy  veils.  “I  think  it 
wouldn’t  do  any  good  whatever.  When  growing 
things  are  broken  by  the  whirlwind,  they  don’t,  as  a 
rule,  discuss  the  theory  of  air-currents  as  a  consolation. 
Men  such  as  he  was  take  what  they  desire.  It  isn’t 
fair — to  us  others.  But  it’s  true,  for  all  that - ” 

Their  eyes  met  warily;  and  for  no  reason  which 
they  shared  in  common  they  smiled  together. 

“Poor  little  Lady  of  Shalott,”  said  Rudolph  Mus- 
grave,  “the  mirror  is  cracked  from  side  to  side,  isn’t 

343 


it?  I  am  sorry.  For  life  is  not  so  easily  disposed 
of.  And  there  is  only  life  to  look  at  now,  and  life 
is  a  bewilderingly  complex  business,  you  will  find, 
because  the  laws  of  it  are  so  childishly  simple — and 
implacable.  And  one  of  these  laws  seems  to  be  that 
in  our  little  planet,  might  makes  right — - — ” 

He  stayed  to  puff  his  cigarette. 

“Oh,  Rudolph  dear,  don’t — don’t  be  just  a  merry- 
Andrew!”  she  cried  impulsively,  before  he  had  time 
to  continue,  which  she  perceived  he  meant  to  do,  as 
if  it  did  not  matter. 

And  he  took  her  full  meaning,  quite  as  he  had 
been  used  in  the  old  times  to  discourse  upon  a  half¬ 
sentence.  “I  am  afraid  I  am  that,  rather,”  he  said, 
reflectively.  “But  then  Clarice  and  I  could  hardly 
have  weathered  scandal  except  by  making  ourselves 
particularly  agreeable  to  everybody.  And  somehow 
I  got  into  the  habit  of  making  people  laugh.  It  isn’t 
very  difficult.  I  am  rather  an  adept  at  telling  stories 
which  just  graze  impropriety,  for  instance.  You  know, 
they  call  me  the  social  triumph  of  my  generation.  And 
people  are  glad  to  see  me  because  I  am  ‘so  awfully 
funny’  and  ‘simply  killing’  and  so  on.  And  I  sup¬ 
pose  it  tells  in  the  long  run — like  the  dyer’s  hand,  you 
know.” 

“It  does  tell.”  Anne  was  thinking  it  would  always 
tell.  And  that,  too,  would  be  John  Charteris’s  handi¬ 
work. 

Ensued  a  silence.  Rudolph  Musgrave  was  pains¬ 
takingly  intent  upon  his  cigarette.  A  nestward-plung- 
344 


RELICS 


in g  bird  called  to  his  mate  impatiently.  Then  Anne 
shook  her  head  impatiently. 

“Come,  while  I’m  thinking,  I  will  drive  you  back  to 
Lichfield.”  , 

“Oh,  no;  that  wouldn’t  do  at  all,”  he  said,  with 
absolute  decision.  “No,  you  see  I  have  to  return  the 
boy.  And  I  can’t  quite  imagine  your  carriage  wait¬ 
ing  at  the  doors  of  ‘that  Mrs.  Pendomer.’  ” 

“Oh,”  Anne  fleetingly  thought,  “he  would  have  un¬ 
derstood.”  But  aloud  she  only  said:  “And  do  you 
think  I  hate  her  any  longer?  Yes,  it  is  true  I  hated 
her  until  to-day,  and  now  I’m  just  sincerely  sorry 
for  her.  For  she  and  I — and  you  and  even  the  child 
yonder — and  all  that  any  of  us  is  to-day — are  just 
so  many  relics  of  John  Charteris.  Yet  he  has  done 
with  us — at  last!” 

She  said  this  with  an  inhalation  of  the  breath;  but 
she  did  not  look  at  him. 

“Take  care!”  he  said,  with  an  unreasonable  harsh¬ 
ness.  “For  I  forewarn  you  I  am  imagining  vain 
things.” 

“I’m  not  afraid,  somehow.”  But  Anne  did  not 
look  at  him. 

He  saw  as  with  a  rending  shock  how  like  the  widow 
of  John  Charteris  was  to  Anne  Willoughby;  and  un¬ 
forgotten  pulses,  very  strange  and  irrational  and  dear, 
perplexed  him  sorely.  He  debated,  and  flung  aside  the 
cigarette  as  an  out-moded  detail  of  his  hobbling  part. 

“You  say  I  did  a  noble  thing  for  you.  I  tried  to. 
But  quixotism  has  its  price.  To-day  I  am  not  quite 

345 


the  man  who  did  that  thing.  John  Charteris  has  set 
his  imprint  too  deep  upon  us.  We  served  his  pleasure. 
We  are  not  any  longer  the  boy  and  girl  who  loved 
each  other.” 

She  waited  in  the  rising  twilight  with  a  yet  averted 
face.  The  world  was  motionless,  ineffably  expectant, 
as  it  seemed  to  him.  And  the  disposition  of  all 
worldly  affairs,  the  man  dimly  knew,  was  very  an¬ 
ciently  prearranged  by  an  illimitable  and,  upon  the 
whole,  a  kindly  wisdom. 

So  that,  “My  dear,  my  dear!”  he  swiftly  said:  “I 
don't  think  I  can  word  just  what  my  feeling  is  for  you. 
Always  my  view  of  the  world  has  been  that  you  ex¬ 
isted,  and  that  some  other  people  existed — as  acces¬ 
sories - ” 

Then  he  was  silent  for  a  heart-beat,  appraising  her. 
His  hands  lifted  toward  her  and  fell  within  the  mo¬ 
ment,  as  if  it  were  in  impotence. 

Anne  spoke  at  last,  and  the  sweet  voice  of  her  was 
very  glad  and  proud  and  confident. 

“My  friend,  remember  that  I  have  not  thanked 
you.  You  have  done  the  most  foolish  and — the  man¬ 
liest  thing  I  ever  knew  a  man  to  do,  just  for  my  sake. 
And  I  have  accepted  it  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course. 
And  I  shall  always  do  so.  Because  it  was  your  right 
to  do  this  very  brave  and  foolish  thing  for  me.  I 
know  you  joyed  in  doing  it.  Rudolph  .  .  .  you  can¬ 
not  understand  how  glad  I  am  you  joyed  in  doing  it.” 

Their  eyes  met.  It  is  not  possible  to  tell  you  all 
they  were  aware  of  through  that  moment,  because  it 

346 


RELICS 


is  a  knowledge  so  rarely  apprehended,  and  even  then 
for  such  a  little  while,  that  no  man  who  has  sensed 
it  can  remember  afterward  aught  save  the  splendor 

and  perfection  of  it. 

*  *  * 

And  yet  Anne  looked  back  once.  There  was  just 
the  tall,  stark  shaft,  and  on  it  “John  Charteris.”  The 
thing  was  ominous  and  vast,  all  colored  like  wet 
gravel,  save  where  the  sunlight  tipped  it  with  clean 
silver  very  high  above  their  reach. 

“Come,”  she  quickly  said  to  Rudolph  Musgrave; 
“come,  for  I  am  afraid.” 


347 


VI 


AND  are  we  then  to  leave  them  with  glad  faces 
turned  to  that  new  day  wherein,  above  the 
ashes  of  old  errors  and  follies  and  mischances 
and  miseries,  they  were  to  raise  the  structure  of  such 
a  happiness  as  earth  rarely  witnesses?  Would  it  not 
be,  instead,  a  grateful  task  more  fully  to  depicture  how 
Rudolph  Musgrave’s  love  of  Anne  won  finally  to  its 
reward,  and  these  two  shared  the  evening  of  their 
lives  in  tranquil  service  of  unswerving  love  come  to  its 
own  at  last? 

Undoubtedly,  since  the  espousal  of  one's  first  love — * 
by  oneself — is  a  phenomenon  rarely  encountered  out¬ 
side  of  popular  fiction,  it  would  be  a  very  gratifying 
task  to  record  that  Anne  and  Rudolph  Musgrave  were 
married  that  autumn;  that  subsequently  Lichfield 
was  astounded  by  the  fervor  of  their  life-long  bliss; 
that  Colonel  and  (the  second)  Mrs.  Musgrave  were 
universally  respected,  in  a  word,  and  their  dinner¬ 
parties  were  always  prominently  chronicled  by  the 
Lichfield  Courier-Herald;  and  that  Anne  took  excel¬ 
lent  care  of  little  Roger,  and  that  she  and  her  second 
husband  proved  eminently  suited  to  each  other. 

But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  not  one  of  these  things 
ever  happened.  .  .  . 

348 


RELICS 


“I  have  been  thinking  it  over/’  Anne  deplored. 
“Oh,  Rudolph  dear,  I  perfectly  realize  you  are  the  best 
and  noblest  man  I  ever  knew.  And  I  have  always 
loved  you  very  much,  my  dear;  that  is  why  I  could 
never  abide  poor  Mrs.  Pendomer.  And  yet — it  is  a 
feeling  I  simply  can’t  explain - ” 

“That  you  belong  to  Jack  in  spite  of  everything?” 
the  colonel  said.  “Why,  but  of  course!  I  might  have 
known  that  Jack  would  never  have  allowed  any  simple 
incidental  happening  such  as  his  death  to  cause  his 
missing  a  possible  trick.” 

Anne  would  have  comforted  Rudolph  Musgrave; 
but,  to  her  discomfiture,  the  colonel  was  grinning,  how¬ 
ever  ruefully. 

“I  was  thinking,”  he  stated,  “of  the  only  time  that 
I  ever,  to  my  knowledge,  talked  face  to  face  with 
the  devil.  It  is  rather  odd  how  obstinately  life  clings 
to  the  most  hackneyed  trick  of  ballad-makers;  and 
still  naively  pretends  to  enrich  her  productions  by 
the  stale  device  of  introducing  a  refrain — so  that  the 
idlest  remarks  of  as  much  as  three  years  ago  keep 
cropping  up  as  the  actual  gist  of  the  present!  .  .  . 
However,  were  it  within  my  power,  I  would  evoke 
Amaimon  straightway  now  to  come  up  yonder, 
through  your  hearthrug,  and  to  answer  me  quite  hon¬ 
estly  if  I  did  not  tell  him  on  the  beach  at  Matocton 
that  this,  precisely  this,  would  be  the  outcome  of  your 
knowing  everything!” 

“I  told  you  that  I  couldn’t,  quite,  explain - ” 

Anne  said. 


549 


“Eh,  but  I  can,  my  dear,”  he  informed  her.  “The 
explanation  is  that  Lichfield  bore  us,  shaped  us,  and 
made  us  what  we  are.  We  may  not  enjoy  a  monopoly 
of  the  virtues  here  in  Lichfield,  but  there  is  one  trait 
at  least  which  the  children  of  Lichfield  share  in  com¬ 
mon.  We  are  loyal.  We  give  but  once;  and  when  we 
give,  we  give  all  that  we  have ;  and  when  we  have  once 
given  it,  neither  common-sense,  nor  a  concourse  of 
expostulating  seraphim,  nor  anything  else  in  the  uni¬ 
verse,  can  induce  us  to  believe  that  a  retraction,  or 
even  a  qualification,  of  the  gift  would  be  quite  worthy 
of  us.” 

“But  that — that’s  foolish.  Why,  it’s  unreasonable,” 
Anne  pointed  out. 

“Of  course  it  is.  And  that  is  why  I  am  proud  of 
Lichfield.  And  that  is  why  you  are  to-day  Jack’s  wife 
and  always  will  be  just  Jack’s  wife — and  why  to-day 
I  am  Patricia’s  husband — and  why  Lichfield  to-day  is 
Lichfield.  There  is  something  braver  in  life  than  to  be 
just  reasonable,  thank  God!  And  so,  we  keep  the 
faith,  my  dear,  however  obsolete  we  find  fidelity  to 
be.  We  keep  to  the  old  faith — we  of  Lichfield,  who 
have  given  hostages  to  the  past.  We  remember  even 
now  that  we  gave  freely  in  an  old  time,  and  did  not 
haggle.  .  .  .  And  so,  we  are  proud — yes !  we  are  con- 
sumedly  proud,  and  we  know  that  we  have  earned  the 
right  to  be  proud.” 

A  little  later  Colonel  Musgrave  said: 

“And  yet — it  takes  a  monstrous  while  to  dispose  of 
our  universe’s  subtleties.  I  have  loved  you  my  whole 
350 


RELICS 


life  long,  as  accurately  as  we  can  phrase  these  matters. 
There  is  no — no  reasonable  reason  why  you  should 
not  marry  me  now;  and  you  would  marry  me  if  I 
pressed  it.  And  I  do  not  press  it.  Perhaps  it  all 
comes  of  our  both  having  been  reared  in  Lichfield. 
Perhaps  that  is  why  I,  too,  have  been  ‘thinking  it 
over/  You  see,”  he  added,  with  a  smile,  “the  rivet 
in  grandfather's  neck  is  not  lightly  to  be  ignored,  after 
all.  No,  you  do  not  know  what  I  am  talking  about, 
my  dear.  And — well,  anyhow,  I  belong  to  Patricia. 
Upon  the  whole,  I  am  glad  that  I  belong  to  Patricia; 
for  Patricia  and  what  Patricia  meant  to  me  was  the 
one  vital  thing  in  a  certain  person’s  rather  hand-td- 
mouth  existence — oh,  yes,  in  spite  of  everything!  I 
know  it  now.  Anne  Charteris,”  the  colonel  cried,  “I 
wouldn’t  marry  you  or  any  other  woman  breathing, 
even  though  you  were  to  kneel  and  implore  me  upon 
the  knees  of  a  centipede.  For  I  belong  to  Patricia; 
and  the  rivet  stays  unbroken,  after  all/’ 

“Oh,  and  am  I  being  very  foolish  again?”  Anne 
asked.  “For  I  have  been  remembering  that  when — • 
when  Jack  was  not  quite  truthful  about  some  things, 
you  know, — the  truth  he  hid  was  always  one  which 
would  have  hurt  me.  And  I  like  to  believe  that  was,  at 
least  in  part,  the  reason  he  hid  it,  Rudolph.  So  he 
purchased  my  happiness — well,  at  ugly  prices  perhaps. 
But  he  purchased  it,  none  the  less ;  and  I  had  it  through 
all  those  years.  So  why  shouldn’t  I — after  all — be 
very  grateful  to  him?  And,  besides” — her  voice  broke 
— “besides,  he  was  Jack,  you  know.  He  belonged  to 

351 


me.  What  does  it  matter  what  he  did  ?  He  belonged 
to  me,  and  I  loved  him.” 

And  to  the  colonel’s  discomfort  Anne  began  to  cry. 

“There,  there !”  he  said,  “so  the  real  truth  is  out  at 
last.  And  tears  don’t  help  very  much.  It  does  seem  a 
bit  unfair,  my  dear,  I  know.  But  that  is  simply  be¬ 
cause  you  and  I  are  living  in  a  universe  which  has 
never  actually  committed  itself,  under  any  penaliz¬ 
ing  bond,  to  be  entirely  candid  as  to  the  laws  by 

which  it  is  conducted.” 

*  *  * 

But  it  may  be  that  Rudolph  Musgrave  voiced  quite 
obsolete  views.  For  he  said  this  at  a  very  remote 
period — when  the  Beef  Trust  was  being  “investigated” 
in  Washington;  when  an  excited  Iberian  constabulary 
was  still  hunting  the  anarchists  who  had  attempted 
to  assassinate  the  young  King  and  Queen  of  Spain 
upon  their  wedding-day;  when  the  rebuilding  of  an 
earthquake-shattered  San  Francisco  was  just  begin¬ 
ning  to  be  talked  of  as  a  possibility;  and  when  edi¬ 
torials  were  mostly  devoted  to  discussion  of  what  Mr. 
Bryan  would  have  to  say  about  bi-metallism  when  he 
returned  from  his  foreign  tour. 

And,  besides,  it  was  Rudolph  Musgrave’s  besetting 
infirmity  always  to  shrink — under  shelter  of  whatever 
grandiloquent  excuse — from  making  changes.  One 
may  permissibly  estimate  this  foible  to  have  weighed 
with  him  a  little,  even  now,  just  as  in  all  things  it 
had  always  weighed  in  Lichfield  with  all  his  genera¬ 
tion.  An  old  custom  is  not  lightly  broken. 

352 


PART  TEN 


IMPRIMIS 


“So  let  us  laugh,  lest  vain  rememberings 
Breed,  as  of  old,  some  rude  bucolic  cry 
Of  awkward  anguishes,  of  dreams  that  die 
Without  decorum,  of  Love  lacking  wings 
Yet  striving  you-ward  in  his  flounderings 
Eternally, — as  now,  even  when  I  lie 
As  I  lie  now,  who  know  that  you  and  I 
Exist  and  heed  not  lesser  happenings. 

“I  was.  I  am.  I  will  be.  Eh,  no  doubt 
For  some  sufficient  cause,  I  drift,  defer, 

Equivocate,  dream,  hazard,  grow  more  stout, 

Age,  am  no  longer  Love’s  idolater, — 

And  yet  I  could  and  would  not  live  without 

Your  faith  that  heartens  and  your  doubts  which  spur.” 

Lionel  Crochard.  Palinodia. 


I 


SO  weeks  and  months,  and  presently  irrevocable 
years,  passed  tranquilly;  and  nothing  very  im¬ 
portant  seemed  to  happen  nowadays,  either  for 
good  or  ill;  and  Rudolph  Musgrave  was  content 
enough. 

True,  there  befell,  and  with  increasing  frequency, 
periods  when  one  must  lie  abed,  and  be  coaxed  into 
taking  interminable  medicines,  and  be  ministered  unto 
generally,  because  one  was  pf  a  certain  age  nowadays, 
and  must  be  prudent.  But  even  such  necessities,  these 
underhanded  indignities  of  time,  had  their  alleviations. 
Trained  nurses,  for  example,  were  uncommonly  well- 
informed  and  agreeable  young  women,  when  you  came 
to  know  them — and  quite  ladylike,  too,  for  all  that  in 
our  topsyturvy  days  these  girls  had  to  work  for  their 
living.  Unthinkable  as  it  seemed,  the  colonel  found 
that  his  night-nurse,  a  Miss  Ramsay,  was  actually  by 
birth  a  Ramsay  of  Blenheim;  and  for  a  little  the  dis¬ 
covery  depressed  him.  But  to  be  made  much  of, 
upon  whatever  terms,  was  always  treatment  to  which 
the  colonel  submitted  only  too  docilely.  And,  besides, 

355 


in  this  queer,  comfortable,  just  half-waking  state,  the 
colonel  found  one  had  the  drollest  dreams,  evolving 
fancies  such  as  were  really  a  credit  to  one’s  imagina¬ 
tion.  .  .  . 

For  instance,  one  very  often  imagined  that  Pa¬ 
tricia  was  more  close  at  hand  nowadays.  .  .  .  No,  she 
was  not  here  in  the  room,  of  course,  but  outside,  in 
the  street,  at  the  corner  below,  where  the  letterbox 
stood.  Yes,  she  was  undoubtedly  there,  the  colonel 
reflected  drowsily.  And  they  had  been  so  certain  her 
return  could  only  result  in  unhappiness,  and  they 
were  so  wise,  that  whilst  she  waited  for  her  oppor¬ 
tunity  Patricia  herself  began  to  be  a  little  uneasy. 
She  had  patrolled  the  block  six  times  before  the 
chance  came. 

And  it  seemed  to  Rudolph  Musgrave,  drowsily 
pleased  by  his  own  inventiveness,  that  Patricia  was 
glad  this  afternoon  was  so  hot  that  no  one  was  abroad 
except  the  small  boy  at  the  corner  house,  who  sat  upon 
the  bottom  porch-step,  and,  as  children  so  often  do, 
appeared  intently  to  appraise  the  world  at  large  with 
an  inexplicable  air  of  disappointment. 

“Now  think  how  Rudolph  would  feel,” — the  colonel 
whimsically  played  at  reading  Patricia’s  reflection — 
“if  I  were  to  be  arrested  as  a  suspicious  character — 
that’s  what  the  newspapers  always  call  them,  I  think 
— on  his  very  doorstep !  And  he  must  have  been  home 
a  half-hour  ago  at  least,  because  I  know  it’s  after 
five.  But  the  side-gate’s  latched,  and  I  can’t  ring 
the  door-bell — if  only  because  it  would  be  too  ridicu- 

356 


IMPRIMIS 


lous  to  have  to  ask  the  maid  to  tell  Colonel  Musgrave 
his  wife  wanted  to  see  him.  Besides,  I  don’t  know  the 
new  house-girl.  I  wish  now  we  hadn’t  let  old  Mary 
go,  even  though  she  was  so  undependable  about  thor¬ 
ough-cleaning.” 

And  it  seemed  to  Rudolph  Musgrave  that  Patricia 
was  tired  of  pacing  before  the  row  of  houses,  each 
so  like  the  other,  and  compared  herself  to  Gulliver 
astray  upon  a  Brobdingnagian  bookshelf  which  held  a 
“library  set”  of  some  huge  author.  She  had  lost  in¬ 
terest,  too,  in  the  new  house  upon  the  other  side. 

“If  things  were  different  I  would  have  to  call  on 
them.  But  as  it  is,  I  am  spared  that  bother  at  least,” 
said  Patricia,  just  as  if  being  dead  did  not  change 
people  at  all. 

Then  a  colored  woman,  trim  and  frillily-capped, 
came  out  of  the  watched  house.  She  bore  some  eight 
or  nine  letters  in  one  hand,  and  fanned  herself  with 
them  in  a  leisurely  flat-footed  progress  to  the  mail¬ 
box  at  the  lower  corner. 

“She  looks  capable,”  was  Patricia’s  grudging  com¬ 
mentary,  in  slipping  through  the  doorway  into  the 
twilight  of  the  hall.  “But  it  isn’t  safe  to  leave  the 
front-door  open  like  this.  One  never  knows — No, 
I  can  tell  by  the  look  of  her  she’s  the  sort  that  can’t 
be  induced  to  sleep  on  the  lot,  and  takes  mysterious 
bundles  home  at  night.” 


357 


II 


AND  it  seemed  to  Rudolph  Musgrave,  now  in  the 
full  flow  of  this  droll  dream,  that  Patricia  re¬ 
sentfully  noted  her  front-hall  had  been 
“meddled  with.”  This  much  alone  might  Patricia  ob¬ 
serve  in  a  swift  transit  to  the  parlor. 

She  waited  there  until  the  maid  returned;  and  reg¬ 
istered  to  the  woman’s  credit  the  discreet  soft  closing 
of  the  front-door  and  afterward  the  well-nigh  inaud¬ 
ible  swish  of  the  rear  door  of  the  dining-room  as  the 
maid  went  back  into  the  kitchen. 

“In  any  event,”  Patricia  largely  conceded,  “she  prob¬ 
ably  doesn’t  clash  the  knives  and  forks  in  the  pantry 
after  supper,  like  she  was  hostile  armaments  with  any 
number  of  cutlasses  apiece.  I  remember  Rudolph  sim¬ 
ply  couldn’t  stand  it  when  we  had  Ethel.” 

So  much  was  satisfactory.  Only — her  parlor  was 
so  altered! 

There  was — to  give  you  just  her  instantaneous  first 
impression — so  little  in  it.  Broad  spaces  of  plain  color 
showed  everywhere;  and  Patricia’s  ideal  of  what  a 
parlor  should  be,  as  befitted  the  chatelaine  of  a  fine 
358 


IMPRIMIS 


home  in  Lichfield,  had  always  been  the  tangled  elegan¬ 
cies  of  the  front  show-window  of  a  Woman’s  Ex¬ 
change  for  Fancy  Work.  The  room  had  even  been  re¬ 
papered — odiously,  as  she  considered;  and  the  shiny 
floor  of  it  boasted  just  three  inefficient  rugs,  like  dingy 
rafts  upon  a  sea  qf  very  strong  coffee. 

Patricia  looked  in  vain  for  her  grandiose  plush-cov¬ 
ered  chairs,  her  immaculate  “tidies,”  and  the  proud 
yellow  lambrequin,  embroidered  in  high  relief  with 
white  gardenias,  which  had  formerly  adorned  the  man¬ 
telpiece.  The  heart  of  her  hungered  for  her  unfor¬ 
gotten  and  unforgettable  “watered-silk”  papering 
wherein  white  roses  bloomed  exuberantly  against  a 
yellow  background — which  deplorably  faded  if  you  did 
not  keep  the  window-shades  down,  she  remembered — • 
and  she  wanted  back  her  white  thick  comfortable  car¬ 
pet  which  hid  the  floor  completely,  so  that  everywhere 
you  trod  upon  the  buxomest  of  stalwart  yellow  roses, 
each  bunch  of  which  was  lavishly  tied  with  wind¬ 
blown  ribbons. 

Then,  too,  her  cherished  spinning-wheel,  at  least  two 
hundred  and  fifty  years  old,  which  had  looked  so 
pretty  after  she  had  gilded  it  and  added  a  knot  of 
pink  sarsenet,  was  departed;  and  gone  as  well  was 
the  mirror-topped  table,  with  its  array  of  china  swan 
and  frogs  and  water-lilies  artistically  grouped  about 
its  speckless  surface.  Even  her  prized  engraving  of 
“Michael  Angelo  Buonarotti” — contentedly  regarding 
his  just  finished  Moses,  while  a  pope  tiptoed  into  the 
room  through  a  side-door — had  been  removed,  with 

359 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


all  its  splendors  of  red-plush  and  intricate  gilt-fram¬ 
ing. 

Just  here  and  there,  in  fine,  like  a  familiar  face  in 
a  crowd,  she  could  discover  some  one  of  her  more 
sedately-colored  “parlor  ornaments”;  and  the  whole 
history  of  it — its  donor  or  else  its  price,  the  gestures 
of  the  shopman,  even  what  sort  of  weather  it  was 
when  she  and  Rudolph  found  “exactly  what  I’ve  been 
looking  for”  in  the  shop-window,  and  the  Stapyltonian 
haggling  over  the  price  with  which  Patricia  had  bar¬ 
gained — such  unimportant  details  as  these  now  vividly 
awakened  in  recollection.  ...  In  fine,  this  room  was 
not  her  parlor  at  all,  and  in  it  Patricia  was  lonely. 
.  .  .  Yes,  yes,  she  would  be  nowadays,  the  colonel  re¬ 
flected,  for  he  himself  had  never  been  in  thorough  sym¬ 
pathy  with  all  the  changes  made  by  Roger’s  self-as¬ 
sured  young  wife. 

Thus  it  was  with  the  first  floor  of  the  house,  through 
which  Patricia  strayed  with  uniform  discomfort. 
This  place  was  home  no  longer. 

Thus  it  was  with  the  first  floor  of  the  house.  Every¬ 
where  the  equipments  were  strange,  or  at  best  ar¬ 
ranged  not  quite  as  Patricia  would  have  placed  them. 
Yet  they  had  not  any  look  of  being  recently  purchased. 
Even  that  hideous  stair-carpet  was  a  little  worn,  she 
noted,  as  noiselessly  she  mounted  to  the  second  story. 

The  house  was  perfectly  quiet,  save  for  a  tiny  shrill 
continuance  of  melody  that  somehow  seemed  only  to 
pierce  the  silence,  not  to  dispel  it.  Rudolph — of  all 
things ! — had  in  her  absence  acquired  a  canary.  And 
360 


IMPRIMIS 


everybody  knew  what  an  interminable  nuisance  a 
canary  was. 

She  entered  the  front  room.  It  had  been  her  bed¬ 
room  ever  since  her  marriage.  She  remembered  this 
as  with  a  gush  of  defiant  joy. 


361 


Ill 


SO  it  seemed  to  Rudolph  Musgrave  that  Pa¬ 
tricia  came  actually  into  the  room  that  had  been 
hers.  .  .  . 

A  canary  was  singing  there,  very  sweet  and  shrill 
and  as  in  defiant  joy.  Its  trilling  seemed  to  fill  the 
room.  In  the  brief  pauses  of  his  song  the  old  clock 
from  which  Rudolph  had  removed  the  pendulum  on 
the  night  of  Agatha’s  death  would  interpose  an  ob¬ 
stinate  slow  ticking;  and  immediately  the  clock-noise 
would  be  drowned  in  melody.  Otherwise  the  room 
was  silent. 

In  the  alcove  stood  the  bed  which  had  been  Pa¬ 
tricia’s.  Intent  upon  its  occupant  were  three  persons, 
with  their  backs  turned  to  her.  One  Patricia  could 
easily  divine  to  be  a  doctor;  he  was  twiddling  a  hypo¬ 
dermic  syringe  between  his  fingers,  and  the  set  of  his 
shoulders  was  that  of  acquiescence.  Profiles  of  the 
others  she  saw:  one  a  passive  nurse  in  uniform,  who 
was  patiently  chafing  the  right  hand  of  the  bed’s  occu¬ 
pant;  the  other  a  lean-featured  red-haired  stranger, 
who  sat  crouched  in  his  chair  and  held  the  dying  man’s 
left  hand. 

362 


IMPRIMIS 


For  in  the  bed,  supported  by  many  pillows,  and  fac¬ 
ing  Patricia,  was  a  dying  man.  He  was  very  old,  hav¬ 
ing  thick  tumbled  hair  which,  like  his  two-weeks' 
beard,  was  uniformly  white.  His  eyelids  drooped  a 
trifle,  so  that  he  seemed  to  meditate  concerning  some¬ 
thing  ineffably  remote  and  serious,  yet  not,  upon  the 
whole,  unsatisfactory.  You  saw  and  heard  the  intake 
of  each  breath,  so  painfully  drawn,  and  expelled  with 
manifest  relief,  as  if  the  man  were  very  tired  of 
breathing.  Yet  the  bedclothes  heaved  with  his  vain 
efforts  just  to  keep  on  breathing.  And  sometimes  his 
parted  lips  would  twitch  curiously.  .  .  .  Rudolph 
Musgrave,  too,  could  see  all  this  quite  plainly,  in  the 
mirror  over  the  mantel. 

The  doctor  spoke.  “Yes — it's  the  end,  Professor 
Musgrave,”  he  said.  For  this  lean-featured  red-haired 
stranger  to  whom  the  doctor  spoke,  a  pedagogue  to  his 
finger-tips,  had  once  been  Patricia's  dearly-purchased, 
chubby  baby  Roger. 

And  Rudolph  Musgrave  stayed  motionless.  He 
knew  Patricia  was  there;  but  that  fact  no  longer 
seemed  either  very  strange  or  even  unnatural ;  and  be¬ 
sides,  it  was  against  some  law  for  him  to  look  at  her 
until  Patricia  had  called  him.  .  .  .  Meanwhile,  just 
opposite,  above  the  mirror,  and  facing  him,  was  the 
Stuart  portrait  of  young  Gerald  Musgrave.  This  pic¬ 
ture  had  now  hung  there  for  a  great  many  years.  The 
boy  still  smiled  at  you  in  undiminished  raillery,  even 
though  he  smiled  ambiguously,  and  with  a  sort  of  hu¬ 
morous  sadness  in  his  eyes.  Once,  very  long  ago — » 

363 


when  the  picture  hung  downstairs — some  one  had  said 
that  Gerald  Musgrave’s  life  was  barren.  The  dying 
man  could  not  now  recollect,  quite,  who  that  person 
was. 

Rudolph  Musgrave  stayed  motionless.  He  compre¬ 
hended  that  he  was  dying.  The  greatest  of  all  changes 
was  at  hand;  and  he,  who  had  always  shrunk  from 
making  changes,  was  now  content  enough.  .  .  .  In¬ 
deed,  with  Rudolph  Musgrave  living  had  always  been 
a  vaguely  dissatisfactory  business,  a  hand-to-mouth 
proceeding  which  he  had  scrambled  through,  as  he  saw 
now,  without  any  worthy  aim  or  even  any  intelligible 
purpose.  He  had  nothing  very  heinous  with  which  to 
reproach  himself ;  but  upon  the  other  side,  he  had 
most  certainly  nothing  of  which  to  be  particularly 
proud. 

So  this  was  all  that  living  came  to !  You  heard  of 
other  people  being  rapt  by  splendid  sins  and  splendid 
virtues,  and  you  anticipated  that  to-morrow  some 
such  majestic  energy  would  transfigure  your  own  liv¬ 
ing,  and  change  everything:  but  the  great  adventure 
never  arrived,  somehow;  and  the  days  were  frittered 
away  piecemeal,  what  with  eating  your  dinner,  and 
taking  a  wholesome  walk,  and  checking  up  your  bank 
account,  and  dovetailing  scraps  of  parish  registers  and 
land-patents  and  county  records  into  an  irrefutable 
pedigree,  and  seeing  that  your  clothes  were  pressed, 
and  looking  over  the  newspapers — and  what  with 
other  infinitesimal  avocations,  each  one  innocent, 
none  of  any  particular  importance,  and  each  consum- 

364 


IMPRIMIS 


in g  an  irrevocable  moment  of  the  allotted  time — until 
at  last  you  found  that  living  had  not,  necessarily,  any 
climax  at  all.  .  .  .  And  Patricia  would  call  him  pres¬ 
ently. 

Once,  very  long  ago,  some  one  had  said  that  the 
most  pathetic  tragedy  in  life  was  to  get  nothing  in 
particular  out  of  it.  The  dying  man  could  not  now 
recollect,  quite,  who  that  person  was. 

He  wondered,  vaguely,  what  might  have  been  the 
outcome  if  Rudolph  Musgrave  had  whole-heartedly 
sought,  not  waited  for,  the  great  adventure;  if  Ru¬ 
dolph  Musgrave  had  put — however  irrationally — more 
energy  and  less  second-thought  into  living;  if  Rudolph 
Musgrave  had  not  been  contented  to  be  just  a  Mus¬ 
grave  of  Matocton.  .  .  .  Well,  it  was  too  late  now. 
Pie  viewed  his  whole  life  now,  in  epitome,  and  much 
as  you  may  see  at  night  the  hackneyed  vista  from 
your  window  leap  to  incisiveness  under  the  lash  of 
lightning.  No,  the  life  of  Rudolph  Musgrave  had 
never  risen  to  the  plane  of  dignity,  not  even  to  that 
of  seeming  to  Rudolph  Musgrave  a  connected  and 
really  important  transaction  on  Rudolph  Musgrave’s 
part.  Yet  Lichfield,  none  the  better  for  Rudolph  Mus- 
grave’s  having  lived,  was  none  the  worse,  thank 
heaven!  And  there  were  younger  men  in  Lichfield — 
men  who  did  not  mean  to  fail  as  Rudolph  Musgrave 
and  his  fellows  all  had  failed.  .  .  .  Eh,  yes,  what  was 
the  toast  that  Rudolph  Musgrave  drank,  so  long  ago, 
to  the  new  Lichfield  which  these  younger  men  were 
making? 


365 


“To  this  new  South,  that  has  not  any  longer  need 
of  me  or  of  my  kind. 

“To  this  new  South!  She  does  not  gaze  unwill¬ 
ingly,  nor  too  complacently,  upon  old  years,  and  dares 
concede  that  but  with  loss  of  manliness  may  any  man 
encroach  upon  the  heritage  of  a  dog  or  of  a  trotting- 
horse,  and  consider  the  exploits  of  an  ancestor  to 
guarantee  an  innate  and  personal  excellence. 

“For  to  her  all  former  glory  is  less  a  jewel  than  a 
touchstone,  and  with  her  portion  of  it  daily  she  ap¬ 
praises  her  own  doing,  and  without  vain  speech.  And 
her  high  past  she  values  now,  in  chief,  as  fit  founda¬ 
tion  of  that  edifice  whereon  she  labors  day  by  day, 
and  with  augmenting  strokes.” 

Yes,  that  was  it.  And  it  was  true.  Yet  Rudolph 
Musgrave’s  life  on  earth  was  ending  now — the  only 
life  that  he  would  ever  have  on  earth — and  it  had 
never  risen  to  the  plane  of  seeming  even  to  Rudolph 
Musgrave  a  really  important  transaction  on  Rudolph 
Musgrave’s  part.  .  .  . 

Then  Patricia  spoke.  Low  and  very  low  she  called 
to  Olaf,  and  the  dim,  wistful  eyes  of  Rudolph  Mus¬ 
grave  lifted,  and  gazed  full  upon  her  standing  there, 
and  were  no  longer  wistful.  And  the  man  made  as 
though  to  rise,  and  could  not,  and  his  face  was  very 
glad. 

For  in  the  dying  man  had  awakened  the  pulses  of 
an  old,  strange,  half-forgotten  magic,  and  all  his  old 
delight  in  the  girl  who  had  shared  in  and  had  provoked 
this  ancient  wonder-working,  together  with  a  quite 
366 


IMPRIMIS 


new  consciousness  of  the  inseparability  of  Patricia’s 
foibles  from  his  existence;  so  that  he  was  incuriously 
aware  of  his  imbecility  in  not  having  known  always 
that  Patricia  must  come  back  some  day,  not  as  a 
glorious,  unfamiliar  angel,  but  unaltered. 

“I  am  glad  you  haven’t  changed.  .  .  .  Why,  but 
of  course!  Nothing  would  have  counted  if  you  had 
changed — not  even  for  the  better,  Patricia.  For  you 
and  what  you  meant  to  me  were  real.  That  only  was 
real — that  we,  not  being  demigods,  but  being  just  what 
we  were,  once  climbed  together  very  high,  where  we 
could  glimpse  the  stars — and  nothing  else  can  ever 
be  of  any  importance.  What  we  inherited  was  too 
much  for  us,  was  it  not,  my  dear?  And  now  it  is 
not  formidable  any  longer.  Oh,  but  I  loved  you  very 
greatly,  Patricia!  And  now  at  last,  my  dear,  I  seem 
to  understand — as  in  that  old,  old  time  when  you 
and  I  were  glad  together - ” 

But  he  did  not  say  this  aloud,  for  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  stood  in  a  cool,  pleasant  garden,  and  that 
Patricia  came  toward  him  through  the  long  shadows 
of  sunset.  The  lacy  folds  and  furbelows  and  semi¬ 
transparencies  that  clothed  her  were  now  tinged  with 
gold  and  now,  as  a  hedge  or  a  flower-bed  screened 
her  from  the  level  rays,  were  softened  into  multitudi¬ 
nous  graduations  of  grays  and  mauves  and  violets. 

They  did  not  speak.  But  in  her  eyes  he  found  com¬ 
passion  and  such  tenderness  as  awed  him ;  and  then,  as 
a  light  is  puffed  out,  they  were  the  eyes  of  a  friendly  - 
stranger.  He  understood,  for  an  instant,  that  of  ne- 

367 


THE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER’S  NECK 


cessity  it  was  decreed  time  must  turn  back  and  every¬ 
thing,  even  Rudolph  Musgrave,  be  just  as  it  had  been 
when  he  first  saw  Patricia.  For  they  had  made  noth¬ 
ing  of  their  lives;  and  so,  they  must  begin  all  over 
again. 

“Failure  is  not  permitted  ’’  he  was  saying.  .  .  . 

“You’re  Cousin  Rudolph,  aren’t  you?”  she 
asked.  .  .  . 

And  Rudolph  Musgrave  knew  he  had  forgotten 
something  of  vast  import,  but  what  this  knowledge 
had  pertained  to  he  no  longer  knew.  Then  Rudolph 
Musgrave  noted,  with  a  delicious  tingling  somewhere 
about  his  heart,  that  her  hair  was  like  the  reflection 
of  a  sunset  in  rippling  waters — only  many  times  more 
beautiful,  of  course — and  that  her  mouth  was  an  in¬ 
considerable  trifle,  a  scrap  of  sanguine  curves,  and  that 
her  eyes  were  purple  glimpses  of  infinity. 


THE  END 


368 


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